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Memories, 
W^^ Ureams, 




| Kef lections 


firtteri by -^M 

Aniela Jaf fe 9 

TranslatedfrDm the '^m 
German by 1 
Richard and 
Clara Winston 


Ai3 


: u ■ ■ 


■PC. G. Jung 



Memories, Dreams, 
Reflections 

by C. G. Jung 

Recorded And Edited By Aniela Jaffe 

Translated From The German By 
Richard and Clara Winston 
REVISED EDITION 
VINTAGE BOOKS 



Introduction 



He looked at his own Soul 
with a Telescope. What seemed 
all irregular, he saw and 
shewed to be beautiful 
Constellations; and he added 
to the Consciousness hidden 
worlds within worlds. 
Coleridge, Notebooks 

This Book had its inception during the Eranos Conference held in 
Ascona in the summer of 1956. There the publisher Kurt Wolff, in 
conversation with friends from Zurich, spoke of his wish to have 
Pantheon Books of New York publish a biography of Carl Gustav 
lung. Dr. Jolande Jacobi, one of C. G.Jung's associates, proposed 
that the office of biographer be entrusted to me. 

All of us were well aware that the task would by no means be an 
easy one. Jung's distaste for exposing his personal life to the public 
eye was well known, Indeed, he gave his consent only after a long 
period of doubt and hesitation. But once he had done so, he 
allotted to me an entire afternoon once a week for our work 
together. Considering the press of his regular program of work, and 
how easily he tired-for even then he was past eighty— that was a 
great deal of time. 

We began in the spring of 1957. It had been proposed that the 
book be written not as a "biography," but in the form of an 
"autobiography," with Jung himself as the narrator. This plan 
determined the form of the book, and my first task consisted solely 
in asking questions and noting down Jung's replies. Although he 
was rather reticent at the beginning, he soon warmed to the work. 
He began telling about himself, his development, his dreams, and 



his thoughts with growing interest. 

By the end of the year Jung's affirmative attitude toward our joint 
efforts led to a decisive step. After a period of inner turbulence, 
long-submerged images out of his childhood rose to the surface of 
his mind. He sensed their connection with ideas in the works he 
had written in his old age, but could not grasp it clearly. One 
morning he informed me that he wanted to set down his 
recollections of his childhood directly. By this time he had already 
told me a good many of his earliest memories, but there were still 
great gaps in the story. 

This decision was as gratifying as it was unexpected, for I knew 
how great a strain writing was for Jung. At his advanced age he 
would not undertake anything of the sort unless he felt it was a 
"task" imposed on him from within. Here was evidence that the 
"autobiography" was justified in terms of Jung's own inner life. 

Some time after this new development, I noted down a remark of 
his: "A book of mine is always a matter of fate. There is something 
unpredictable about the process of writing, and I cannot prescribe 
for myself any predetermined course. Thus this 'autobiography 1 is 
now taking a direction quite different from what I had imagined at 
the beginning. It has become a necessity for me to write down my 
early memories. If I neglect to do so for a single day, unpleasant 
physical symptoms immediately follow. As soon as I set to work 
they vanish and my head feels perfectly clear." 

In April 1958 Jung finished the three chapters on his childhood, 
school days, and years at the university. At first he called them, "On 
the Early Events of My Life." These chapters ended with the 
completion of his medical studies in 1900. 

This, however, was not the sole direct contribution that Jung made 



to the book. In January 1959 he was at his country house in 
Bollingen, He devoted every morning to reading chosen chapters of 
our book, which had meanwhile been hammered into shape. When 
he returned the chapter, "On Life after Death," he said to me, 
"Something within me has been touched. A gradient has formed, 
and I must write." Such was the origin of "Late Thoughts," in which 
he voiced his deepest and perhaps his most far-reaching 
convictions. 

In the summer of that same year of 1959, likewise in Bollingen, 
Jung wrote the chapter on Kenya and Uganda. The section on the 
Pueblo Indians is taken from an unpublished and unfinished 
manuscript that deals with general questions of the psychology of 
primitives. 

In order to complete the chapters "Sigmund Freud" and 
"Confrontation with the Unconscious," I incorporated a number of 
passages from a seminar delivered in 1925, in which Jung spoke 
for the first time of his inner development. The chapter "Psychiatric 
Activities" is based on conversations between Jung and the young 
assistant doctors of the Zurich mental hospital of Burgholzli in 1956. 
At that time one of his grandsons was working as a psychiatrist 
there. The conversations took place in Jung's house in Kusnacht. 

Jung read through the manuscript of this book and approved it. 
Occasionally he corrected passages or added new material. In turn, 
I have used the records of our conversations to supplement the 
chapters he wrote himself, have expanded his sometimes terse 
allusions, and have eliminated repetitions. The further the book 
progressed, the closer became the fusion between his work and 
mine. 

The genesis of the book to some extent determined its contents. 
Conversation or spontaneous narration is inevitably casual, and that 



tone has carried over to the entire "autobiography." The chapters 
are rapidly moving beams of light that only fleetingly illuminate the 
outward events of Jung's life and work. In recompense, they 
transmit the atmosphere of his intellectual world and the experience 
of a man to whom the psyche was a profound reality. I often asked 
Jung for specific data on outward happenings, but I asked in vain. 
Only the spiritual essence of his life's experience remained in his 
memory, and this alone seemed to him worth the effort of telling. 
Far more signifcant than the difficulties of formal organization of the 
text were those prior obstacles, of a more personal kind, to which 
Jung refers in a letter to a friend of his student days. Replying to a 
request, in the latter part of 1957, to set down the memories of his 
youth, he wrote: 

"... You are quite right. When we are old, we are drawn back, both 
from within and from without, to memories of youth. Once before, 
some thirty years ago, my pupils asked me for an account of how I 
arrived at my conceptions of the unconscious. I fulfilled this request 
by giving a seminar.[1] During the last years the suggestion has 
come to me from various quarters that I should do something akin 
to an autobiography. I have been unable to conceive of my doing 
anything of the sort. I know too many autobiographies, with their 
self-deceptions and downright lies, and I know too much about the 
impossibility of self-portrayal, to want to venture on any such 
attempt. 

"Recently I was asked for autobiographical information, and in the 
course of answering some questions I discovered hidden in my 
memories certain objective problems which seem to call for closer 
examination. I have therefore weighed the matter and come to the 
conclusion that I shall fend off other obligations long enough to take 
up the very first beginnings of my life and consider them in an 
objective fashion. This task has proved so difficult and singular that 
in order to go ahead with it, I have had to promise myself that the 



results would not be published in my lifetime. Such a promise 
seemed to me essential in order to assure for myself the necessary 
detachment and calm. It became clear that all the memories which 
have remained vivid to me had to do with emotional experiences 
that arouse uneasiness and passion in the mind-scarcely the best 
condition for an objective account! Your letter 'naturally 1 came at the 
very moment when I had virtually resolved to take the plunge. 

1 The 1925 seminar mentioned earlier. 

"Fate will have it-and this has always been the case with me — that 
all the 'outer' aspects of my life should be accidental. Only what is 
interior has proved to have substance and a determining value. As 
a result, all memory of outer events has faded, and perhaps these 
'Outer' experiences were never so very essential anyhow, or were 
so only in that they coincided with phases of my inner development. 
An enormous part of these "outer' manifestations of my life has 
vanished from my memory -for the very reason, so it has seemed 
to me, that I participated in them with all my energies. Yet these are 
the very things that make up a sensible biography: persons one has 
met, travels, adventures, entanglements, blows of destiny, and so 
on. But with few exceptions all these things have become for me 
phantasms which I barely recollect and which my mind has no 
desire to reconstruct, for they no longer stir my imagination. 

"On the other hand, my recollection of 'inner' experiences has grown 
all the more vivid and colorful. This poses a problem of description 
which I scarcely feel able to cope with, at least for the present. 
Unfortunately, I cannot, for these reasons, fulfill your request, greatly 
as I regret my inability to do so.... " 

This letter characterizes Jung's attitude. Although he had already 
"resolved to take the plunge," the letter ends with a refusal. To the 
day of his death the conflict between affirmation and rejection was 



never entirely settled. There always remained a residue of 
skepticism, a shying away from his future readers. He did not 
regard these memoirs as a scientific work, nor even as a book by 
himself. Rather, he always spoke and wrote of it as "Aniela Jaffe's 
project," to which he had made contributions. At his specific 
request it is not to be included in his Collected Works. 

Jung has been particularly reticent in speaking of his encounters 
with people, both public figures and close friends and relatives. "I 
have spoken with many famous men of my time, the great ones in 
science and politics, with explorers, artists and writers, princes and 
financial magnates; but if I am to be honest I must say that only a 
few such encounters have been significant experiences for me. Our 
meetings were like those of ships on the high seas, when they dip 
their flags to one another. Usually, too, these persons had 
something to ask of me which I am not at liberty to divulge. Thus I 
have retained no memories of them, however important these 
persons may be in the eyes of the world. Our meetings were without 
portent; they soon faded away and bore no deeper consequences. 
But of those relationships which were vital to me, and which came 
to me like memories of far-off times, I cannot speak, for they pertain 
not only to my innermost life but also to that of others. It is not for me 
to fling open to the public eye doors that are closed forever. " 

The paucity of outward events is, however, amply compensated by 
the account of Jung's inner experiences, and by a rich harvest of 
thoughts which, as he himself says, are an integral part of his 
biography. This is true first and foremost of his religious ideas, for 
this book contains Jung's religious testament. 

Jung was led to a confrontation with religious questions by a 
number of different routes. There were his childhood visions, which 
brought him face to face with the reality of religious experience and 
remained with him to the end of his life. There was his 



insuppressible curiosity concerning everything that had to do with 
the contents of the psyche and its manifestations-the urge to know 
which characterized his scientific work. And, last but not least, there 
was his conscience as a physician. Jung regarded himself primarily 
as a doctor, a psychiatrist. He was well aware that the patient's 
religious attitude plays a crucial part in the therapy of psychic 
illnesses. This observation coincided with his discovery that the 
psyche spontaneously produces images with a religious content, 
that it is "by nature religious." It also became apparent to him that 
numerous neuroses spring from a disregard for this fundamental 
characteristic of the psyche, especially during the second half of 
life. 

Jung's concept of religion differed in many respects from traditional 
Christianity-above all in his answer to the problem of evil and his 
conception of a God who is not entirely good or kind. From the 
viewpoint of dogmatic Christianity, Jung was distinctly an 
"outsider." For all his world-wide fame, this verdict was forcibly 
borne in upon him by the reactions to his writings. This grieved him, 
and here and there in this book he expresses the disappointment of 
an investigator who felt that his religious ideas were not properly 
understood. More than once he said grimly, "They would have 
burned me as a heretic in the Middle Agesl" Only since his death 
have theologians in increasing numbers begun to say that Jung was 
indubitably an outstanding figure in the religious history of our 
century. 

Jung explicitly declared his allegiance to Christianity, and the most 
important of his works deal with the religious problems of the 
Christian. He looked at these questions from the standpoint of 
psychology, deliberately setting a bound between it and the 
theological approach. In so doing he stressed the necessity of 
understanding and reflecting, as against the Christian demand for 
faith. He took this necessity for granted, as one of the essential 



features of life. "I find that all my thoughts circle around God like the 
planets around the sun, and are as irresistibly attracted by Him. I 
would feel it to be the grossest sin if I were to oppose any 
resistance to this force," he wrote in 1952, to a young clergyman. 

This book is the only place in his extensive writings in which Jung 
speaks of God and his personal experience of God. While he was 
writing of his youthful rebellion against the church, he once said, "At 
that time I realized that God-for me, at least-was one of the most 
immediate experiences? In his scientific works Jung seldom 
speaks of God; there he is at pains to use the term "the God-image 
in the human psyche." This is no contradiction. In the one case his 
language is subjective, based upon inner experience; in the other it 
is the objective language of scientific inquiry. In the first case he is 
speaking as an individual, whose thoughts are influenced by 
passionate, powerful feelings, intuitions, and experiences of a long 
and unusually rich life; in the second, he is speaking as the scientist 
who consciously restricts himself to what may be demonstrated and 
supported by evidence. As a scientist, Jung is an empiricist. 

When Jung speaks of his religious experiences in this book, he is 
assuming that his readers are willing to enter into his point of view. 
His subjective statements will be acceptable only to those who have 
had similar experiences-or, to put it another way, to those in whose 
psyche the God-image bears the same or similar features. 

The chapter entitled "The Work," with its brief survey of the genesis 
of Jung's most important writings, is fragmentary. How could this be 
otherwise, when his collected works comprise nearly twenty 
volumes? Moreover, Jung never felt any disposition to offer a 
summary of his ideas-either in conversation or in writing. When he 
was asked to do so, he replied in his characteristic, rather drastic 
fashion, "That sort of thing lies totally outside my range. I see no 
sense in publishing a condensation of papers in which I went to so 



much trouble to discuss the subject in detail. I should have to omit 
all my evidence and rely on a type of categorical statement which 
would not make my results any easier to understand. The 
characteristic ruminant activity of ungulate animals, which consists 
in the regurgitation of what has already been chewed over, is 
anything but stimulating to my appetite.... " 

The reader should therefore regard this chapter as a retrospective 
sketch written in response to a special occasion, and not expect it 
to be comprehensive. 

The short glossary which I have included at the end of the book, at 
the publisher's request, will, I hope, be of help to the reader who is 
not familiar with Jung's work and terminology. I have taken a small 
number of the definitions from the Worterbuck der Psychologie und 
ihrer Grenzgebiete, with the kind permission of its editor, Kurt von 
Sury, M.D. Wherever possible I have elucidated the concepts of 
Jungian psychology by quotations from Jung's works, and have 
supplemented the dictionary's definitions in the same way. These 
quotations must, however, be regarded as no more than suggestive 
hints. Jung was constantly defining his concepts in new and 
different ways, for an ultimate definition, he felt, was not possible. 
He thought it wise to let the inexplicable elements that always cling 
to psychic realities remain as riddles or mysteries. 

A great many persons have helped me with this inspiring and 
difficult task, have shown unfailing interest during the slow growth of 
the book, and have furthered its progress by stimulating 
suggestions and criticism. To all of them I offer heartfelt thanks. 
Here I shall mention by name only Helen and Kurt Wolff, of Locarno, 
who conceived the idea of the book and helped to bring that idea to 
fruition; Marianne and Walther Niehus-Jung, of Kusnacht-Zurich, 
who throughout the years in which it was taking shape aided me by 
word and deed; and B. F. C. Hull, of Palma de Mallorca, who gave 



me advice and help with unflagging patience. 
Aniela Jarre 
December 1961 



Contents 



Prologue 

I First Yeans 

II School Yeans 

III Student Yeans 

IV Psychiatric Activities 

V Sigmund Freud 

VI Confrontation with the Unconscious 

VII The Work 

VIII The Tower 

IX Travels 

. North Africa 

i. America.- The Pueblo Indians 
ii. Kenya and Uganda 
v. India 

v. Ravenna and Rome 
XVisions 

Xi On Life after Death 
XI Late Thoughts 

Retrospect 

Appendix 

. Letters from Freud to Jung 
i. Letters to Emma Jung from America 
ii. Letter to Emma Jung from North Africa 
v. Richard Wilhelm 
v. Septem Sermones ad Mortuos 

Glossary 

The Collected Works of C G. Jung 

Memories, Dreams, Reflections 



Prologue 



MY LIFE is a story of the self-realization of the unconscious. 
Everything in the unconscious seeks outward manifestation, and the 
personality too desires to evolve out of its unconscious conditions 
and to experience itself as a whole. I cannot employ the language of 
science to trace this process of growth in myself, for I cannot 
experience myself as a scientific problem. 

What we are to our inward vision, and what man appears to be sub 
specie aeternitatis, can only be expressed by way of myth. Myth is 
more individual and expresses life more precisely than does 
science. Science works with concepts of averages which are far 
too general to do justice to the subjective variety of an individual life. 

Thus it is that I have now undertaken, in my eighty-third year, to tell 
my personal myth. I can only make direct statements, only "tell 
stories." Whether or not the stories are "true" is not the problem. 
The only question is whether what I tell is my fable, my truth. 

An autobiography is so difficult to write because we possess no 
standards, no objective foundation, from which to judge ourselves. 
There are really no proper bases for comparison. I know that in 
many things I am not like others, but I do not know what I really am 
like. Man cannot compare himself with any other creature; he is not 
a monkey, not a cow, not a tree. I am a man. But what is it to be 
that? Like every other being, lam a splinter of the infinite deity, but I 
cannot contrast myself with any animal, any plant or any stone. Only 
a mythical being has a range greater than man's. How then can a 
man form any definite opinions about himself? 

We are a psychic process which we do not control, or only partly 



direct. Consequently, we cannot have any final judgment about 
ourselves or our lives. If we had, we would know everything-but at 
most that is only a pretense. At bottom we never know how it has all 
come about. The story of a life begins somewhere, at some 
particular point we happen to remember; and even then it was 
already highly complex. We do not know how life is going to turn 
out. Therefore the story has no beginning, and the end can only be 
vaguely hinted at. 

The life of man is a dubious experiment. It is a tremendous 
phenomenon only in numerical terms. Individually, it is so fleeting, 
so insufficient, that it is literally a miracle that anything can exist and 
develop at all. I was impressed by that fact long ago, as a young 
medical student, and it seemed to me miraculous that I should not 
have been prematurely annihilated. 

Life has always seemed to me like a plant that lives on its rhizome. 
Its true life is invisible, hidden in the rhizome. The part that appears 
above ground lasts only a single summer. Then it withers away-an 
ephemeral apparition. When we think of the unending growth and 
decay of life and civilizations, we cannot escape the impression of 
absolute nullity. Yet I have never lost a sense of something that lives 
and endures underneath the eternal flux. What we see is the 
blossom, which passes. The rhizome remains. 

In the end the only events in my life worth telling are those when the 
imperishable world irrupted into this transitory one. That is why I 
speak chiefly of inner experiences, amongst which I include my 
dreams and visions. These form the prima materia of my scientific 
work. They were the fiery magma out of which the stone that had to 
be worked was crystallized. 

All other memories of travels, people and my surroundings have 
paled beside these interior happenings. Many people have 



participated in the story of our times and written about it; if the 
reader wants an account of that, let him turn to them or get 
somebody to tell it to him. Recollection of the outward events of my 
life has largely faded or disappeared. But my encounters with the 
"other" reality, my bouts with the unconscious, are indelibly 
engraved upon my memory. In that realm there has always been 
wealth in abundance, and everything else has lost importance by 
comparison. 

Similarly, other people are established inalienably in my memories 
only if their names were entered in the scrolls of my destiny from the 
beginning, so that encountering them was at the same time a kind 
of recollection. 

Inner experiences also set their seal on the outward events that 
came my way and assumed importance for me in youth or later on. I 
early arrived at the insight that when no answer comes from within 
to the problems and complexities of life, they ultimately mean very 
little. Outward circumstances are no substitute for inner experience. 
Therefore my life has been singularly poor in outward happenings. I 
cannot tell much about them, for it would strike me as hollow and 
insubstantial. I can understand myself only in the light of inner 
happenings. It is these that make up the singularity of my life, and 
with these my autobiography deals. 



First Years 



WHEN 1 was six months old, my parents moved from Kesswil on 
Lake Constance to Laufen, the castle and vicarage above the Falls 
of the Rhine. This was in 1875. My memories begin with my second 
or third year. I recall the vicarage, the garden, the laundry house, the 
church, the castle, the Falls, the small castle of Worth, and the 
sexton's farm. These are nothing but islands of memory afloat in a 
sea of vagueness, each by itself, apparently with no connection 
between them. One memory comes up which is perhaps the 
earliest of my life, and is indeed only a rather hazy impression. I am 
lying in a pram, in the shadow of a tree. It is a fine, warm summer 
day, the sky blue, and golden sunlight darting through green leaves. 
The hood of the pram has been left up. I have just awakened to the 
glorious beauty of the day, and have a sense of indescribable well- 
being. I see the sun glittering through the leaves and blossoms of 
the bushes. Everything is wholly wonderful, colorful, and splendid. 

Another memory: I am sitting in our dining room, on the west side of 
the house, perched in a high chair and spooning up warm milk with 
bits of broken bread in it. The milk has a pleasant taste and a 
characteristic smell. This was the first time I became aware of the 
smell of milk. It was the moment when, so to speak, I became 
conscious of smelling. This memory, too, goes very far back. 

Still another: a lovely summer evening. An aunt said to me, "Now I 
am going to show you something." She took me out in front of the 
house, on the road to Dachsen. On the far horizon the chain of the 



Alps lay bathed in glowing sunset reds. The Alps could be seen 
very clearly that evening. "Now look over there"-l can hear her 
saying to me in Swiss dialect — "the mountains are all red." For the 
first time I consciously saw the Alps. Then I was told that the next 
day the village children would be going on a school outing to the 
Uetliberg, near Zurich. I wanted so much to go too. To my sorrow, I 
was informed that children as small as I could not go along, there 
was nothing to be done about it. From then on the Uetliberg and 
Zurich became an unattainable land of dreams, near to the glowing, 
snow- covered mountains. 

From a somewhat later period comes another memory. My mother 
took me to the Thurgau to visit friends, who had a castle on Lake 
Constance. I could not be dragged away from the water. The waves 
from the steamer washed up to the shore, the sun glistened on the 
water, and the sand under the water had been curled into little 
ridges by the waves. The lake stretched away and away into the 
distance. This expanse of water was an inconceivable pleasure to 
me, an incomparable splendor. At that time the idea became fixed 
in my mind that I must live near a lake; without water, I thought, 
nobody could live at all. 

Still another memory comes up: strangers, bustle, excitement. The 
maid comes running and exclaims, "The fishermen have found a 
corpse-came down the Falls-they want to put it in the washhousel" 
My father says, "Yes, yes." I want to see the dead body at once. My 
mother holds me back and sternly forbids me to go into the garden. 
When all the men had left, I quickly stole into the garden to the 
washhouse. But the door was locked. I went around the house; at 
the back there was an open drain running down the slope, and I saw 
blood and water trickling out. I found this extraordinarily interesting. 
At that time I was not yet four years old. 

Yet another image: I am restive, feverish, unable to sleep. My father 



carries me in his arms, paces up and down, singing his old student 
songs. I particularly remember one I was especially fond of and 
which always used to soothe me, "Alles schweige, jeder neige ..." 
The beginning went something like that. To this day I can remember 
my father's voice, singing over me in the stillness of the night. 

I was suffering, so my mother told me afterward, from general 
eczema. Dim intimations of trouble in my parents' marriage 
hovered around me. My illness, in 1878, must have been connected 
with a temporary separation of my parents. My mother spent 
several months in a hospital in Basel, and presumably her illness 
had something to do with the difficulty in the marriage. An aunt of 
mine, who was a spinster and some twenty years older than my 
mother, took care of me. I was deeply troubled by my mother's 
being away. From then on, I always felt mistrustful when the word 
"love" was spoken. The feeling I associated with "woman" was for a 
long time that of innate unreliability. "Father," on the other hand, 
meant reliability and powerlessness. That is the handicap I started 
off with. Later, these early impressions were revised: I have trusted 
men friends and been disappointed by them, and I have mistrusted 
women and was not disappointed. 

While my mother was away, our maid, too, looked after me. I still 
remember her picking me up and laying my head against her 
shoulder. She had black hair and an olive complexion, and was 
quite different from my mother. I can see, even now, her hairline, her 
throat, with its darkly pigmented skin, and her ear. All this seemed 
to me very strange and yet strangely familiar. It was as though she 
belonged not to my family but only to me, as though she were 
connected in some way with other mysterious things I could not 
understand. This type of girl later became a component of my 
animal. The feeling of strangeness which she conveyed, and yet of 
having known her always, was a characteristic of that figure which 
later came to symbolize for me the whole essence of womanhood. 



1 For this and other technical terms which are commonly used by Jung but 
may be unfamiliar to the reader or no longer fresh in his mind, see the 
glossary at the end of the book. 

From the period of my parents' separation I have another memory 
image: a young, very pretty and charming girl with blue eyes and fair 
hair is leading me, on a blue autumn day, under golden maple and 
chestnut trees along the Rhine below the Falls, near Worth castle. 
The sun is shining through the foliage, and yellow leaves lie on the 
ground. This girl later became my mother-in-law. She admired my 
father. I did not see her again until I was twenty-one years old. 

These are my outward memories. What follow now are more 
powerful, indeed overwhelming images, some of which I recall only 
dimly. There was a fall downstairs, for example, and another fall 
against the angle of a stove leg. I remember pain and blood, a 
doctor sewing a wound in my head-the scar remained visible until 
my senior year at the Gymnasium. My mother told me, too, of the 
time when I was crossing the bridge over the Rhine Falls to 
Neuhausen. The maid caught me just in time-l already had one leg 
under the railing and was about to slip through. These things point 
to an unconscious suicidal urge or, it may be, to a fatal resistance 
to life in this world. 

At that time I also had vague fears at night. I would hear things 
walking about in the house. The muted roar of the Rhine Falls was 
always audible, and all around lay a danger zone. People drowned, 
bodies were swept over the rocks. In the cemetery nearby, the 
sexton would dig a hole-heaps of brown, upturned earth. Black, 
solemn men in long frock coats with unusually tall hats and shiny 
black boots would bring a black box. My father would be there in his 
clerical gown, speaking in a resounding voice. Women wept. I was 
told that someone was being buried in this hole in the ground. 



Certain persons who had been around previously would suddenly 
no longer be there. Then I would hear that they had been buried, 
and that Lord Jesus had taken them to himself. 

My mother had taught me a prayer which I had to say every evening. 

1 gladly did so because it gave me a sense of comfort in face of the 
vague uncertainties of the night: 

Spread out thy wings, Lord Jesus mild, 
And take to thee thy chick, thy child. 
"If Satan would devour it, 
No harm shall overpower it," 
So let the angels sing! "[2] 

2 Breit' aus die Fluglein beide, 
O Jesu meine Freude 

Und nimm dein Kuchlein ein. 
Will Satan es verschlingen, 
Dann lass die Engel singen: 
Dies Kind soil unverletzet sein. 

Lord Jesus was comforting, a nice, benevolent gentleman like Herr 
Wegenstein up at the castle, rich, powerful, respected, and mindful 
of little children at night. Why he should be winged like a bird was a 
conundrum that did not worry me any further. Far more significant 
and thought-provoking was the fact that little children were 
compared to chicks which Lord Jesus evidently "took" reluctantly, 
like bitter medicine. This was difficult to understand. But I 
understood at once that Satan liked chicks and had to be prevented 
from eating them. So, although Lord Jesus did not like the taste, he 
ate them anyway, so that Satan would not get them.. As far as that 
went, my argument was comforting. But now I was hearing that Lord 
Jesus "took" other people to himself as well, and that this "taking" 
was the same as putting them in a hole in the ground. 

This sinister analogy had unfortunate consequences. I began to 



distrust Lord Jesus. He lost the aspect of a big, comforting, 
benevolent bird and became associated with the gloomy black men 
in frock coats, top hats, and shiny black boots who busied 
themselves with the black box. 

These ruminations of mine led to my first conscious trauma. One 
hot summer day I was sitting alone, as usual, on the road in front of 
the house, playing in the sand. The road led past the house up a hill, 
then disappeared in the wood on the hilltop. So from the house you 
could see a stretch of the road. Looking up, I saw a figure in a 
strangely broad hat and a long black garment coming down from 
the wood. It looked like a man wearing women's clothes. Slowly the 
figure drew nearer, and I could now see that it really was a man 
wearing a kind of black robe that reached to his feet. At the sight of 
him I was overcome with fear, which rapidly grew into deadly terror 
as the frightful recognition shot through my mind: "That is a Jesuit." 
Shortly before, I had overheard a conversation between my father 
and a visiting colleague concerning the nefarious activities of the 
Jesuits. From the half-irritated, half-fearful tone of my father's 
remarks I gathered that "Jesuits" meant something specially 
dangerous, even for my father- Actually I had no idea what Jesuits 
were, but I was familiar with the word "Jesus" from my little prayer. 

The man coming down the road must be in disguise, I thought; that 
was why he wore women's clothes. Probably he had evil intentions. 
Terrified, I ran helter-skelter into the house, rushed up the stairs, 
and hid under a beam in the darkest corner of the attic. I don't know 
how long I remained there, but it must have been a fairly long time, 
because, when I ventured down again to the first floor and 
cautiously stuck my head out of the window, far and wide there was 
not a trace of the black figure to be seen. For days afterward the 
hellish fright clung to my limbs and kept me in the house. And even 
when I began to play in the road again, the wooded hilltop was still 
the object of my uneasy vigilance. Later I realized, of course, that 



the black figure was a harmless Catholic priest. 

At about the same time-l could not say with absolute certainty 
whether it preceded this experience or not-l had the earliest dream 
I can remember, a dream which was to preoccupy me all my life. I 
was then between three and four years old. The vicarage stood 
quite alone near Laufen castle, and there was a big meadow 
stretching back from the sexton's farm. In the dream I was in this 
meadow. Suddenly I discovered a dark, rectangular, stone-lined 
hole in the ground. I had never seen it before. I ran forward curiously 
and peered down into it. Then I saw a stone stairway leading down. 
Hesitantly and fearfully, I descended. At the bottom was a doorway 
with a round arch, closed off by a green curtain. It was a big, heavy 
curtain of worked stuff like brocade, and it looked very sumptuous. 
Curiaous to see what might be hidden behind, 1 pushed it aside. I 
saw before me in the dim light a rectangular chamber about thirty 
feet long. The ceiling was arched and of hewn stone. The floor was 
laid with flagstones, and in the center a red carpet ran from the 
entrance to a low platform. On this platform stood a wonderfully rich 
golden throne. I am not certain, but perhaps a red cushion lay on the 
seat. It was a magnificent throne, a real king's throne in a fairy tale. 
Something was standing on it which I thought at first was a tree 
trunk twelve to fifteen feet high and about one and a half to two feet 
thick. It was a huge thing, reaching almost to the ceiling. But it was 
of a curious composition: it was made of skin and naked flesh, and 
on top there was something like a rounded head with no face and 
no hair. On the very top of the head was a single eye, gazing 
motionlessly upward. 

It was fairly light in the room, although there were no windows and 
no apparent source of light. Above the head, however, was an aura 
of brightness. The thing did not move, yet I had the feeling that it 
might at any moment crawl off the throne like a worm and creep 



toward me. I was paralyzed with terror. At that moment I heard from 
outside and above me my mother's voice. She called out, "Yes, just 
look at him. That is the man-eater!" That intensified my terror still 
more, and I awoke sweating and scared to death. For many nights 
afterward I was afraid to go to sleep, because I feared I might have 
another dream like that. 

This dream haunted me for years. Only much later did I realize that 
what I had seen was a phallus, and it was decades before I 
understood that it was a ritual phallus. I could never make out 
whether my mother meant, "This is the man-eater," or, "That is the 
man-eater." In the first case she would have meant that not Lord 
Jesus or the Jesuit was the devourer of little children, but the 
phallus; in the second case that the "man-eater" in general was 
symbolized by the phallus, so that the dark Lord Jesus, the Jesuit, 
and the phallus were identical. 

The abstract significance of the phallus is shown by the fact that it 
was enthroned by itself, "ithyphallically" (upright) The hole in the 
meadow probably represented a grave. The grave itself was an 
underground temple whose green curtain symbolized the meadow, 
in other words the mystery of Earth with her covering of green 
vegetation. The carpet was blood-red. What about the vault? 
Perhaps I had already been to the Munot, the citadel of 
Schaffhausen? This is not likely, since no one would take a three- 
year-old child up there. So it cannot be a memory-trace. Equally, I 
do not know where the anatomically correct phallus can have come 
from. The interpretation of the orificium urethrae as an eye, with the 
source of light apparently above it, points to the etymology of the 
word phallus (shining, bright).[3] 

At all events, the phallus of this dream seems to be a subterranean 
God "not to be named," and such it remained throughout my youth, 
reappearing whenever anyone spoke too emphatically about Lord 



Jesus. Lord Jesus never became quite real for me, never quite 
acceptable, never quite lovable, for again and again I would think of 
his underground counterpart, a frightful revelation which had been 
accorded me without my seeking it. The Jesuit's "disguise" cast its 
shadow over the Christian doctrine I had been taught. Often it 
seemed to me a solemn masquerade, a kind of funeral at which the 
mourners put on serious or mournful faces but the next moment 
were secretly laughing and not really sad at all. Lord Jesus seemed 
to me in some ways a god of death, helpful, it is true, in that he 
scared away the terrors of the night, but himself uncanny, a crucified 
and bloody corpse. Secretly, his love and kindness, which I always 
heard praised, appeared doubtful to me, chiefly because the 
people who talked most about "dear Lord Jesus" wore black frock 
coats and shiny black boots which reminded me of burials. They 
were my father's colleagues as well as eight of my uncles-all 
parsons. For many years they inspired fear in me-not to speak of 
occasional Catholic priests who reminded me of the terrifying 
Jesuit who had irritated and even alarmed my father. In later years 
and until my confirmation, I made every effort to force myself to take 
the required positive attitude to Christ. But I could never succeed in 
overcoming my secret distrust. 

The fear of the "black man," which is felt by every child, was not the 
essential thing in that experience; it was, rather, the recognition that 
stabbed through my childish brain: "That is a Jesuit." So the 
important thing in the dream was its remarkable symbolic setting 
and the astounding interpretation: "That is the man-eater." Not the 
child's ogre of a man-eater, but the fact that this was the man-eater, 
and that it was sitting on a golden throne beneath the earth. For my 
childish imagination it was first of all the king who sat on a golden 
throne; then, on a much more beautiful and much higher and much 
more golden throne far, far away in the blue sky, sat God and Lord 
Jesus, with golden crowns and white robes. Yet from this same 



Lord Jesus came the "Jesuit," in black women's garb, with a broad 
black hat, down from the wooded hill. I had to glance up there every 
so often to see whether another danger might not be approaching. 
In the dream I went down into the hole in the earth and found 
something very different on a golden throne, something non-human 
and underworldly, which gazed fixedly upward and fed on human 
flesh. It was only fifty years later that a passage in a study of 
religious ritual burned into my eyes, concerning the motif of 
cannibalism that underlies the symbolism of the Mass. Only then did 
it become clear to me how exceedingly unchild-like, how 
sophisticated and oversophisticated was the thought that had 
begun to break through into consciousness in those two 
experiences. Who was it speaking in me? Whose mind had 
devised them? What kind of superior intelligence was at work? I 
know every numbskull will babble on about "black man," "man- 
eater," "chance," and "retrospective interpretation," in order to 
banish something terribly inconvenient that might sully the familiar 
picture of childhood innocence. Ah, these good, efficient, healthy- 
minded people, they always remind me of those optimistic tadpoles 
who bask in a puddle in the sun, in the shallowest of waters, 
crowding together and amiably wriggling their tails, totally unaware 
that the next morning the puddle will have dried up and left them 
stranded. 

Who spoke to me then? Who talked of problems far beyond my 
knowledge? Who brought the Above and Below together, and laid 
the foundation for everything that was to fill the second half of my life 
with stormiest passion? Who but that alien guest who came both 
from above and from below? 

Through this childhood dream I was initiated into the secrets of the 
earth. What happened then was a kind of burial in the earth, and 
many years were to pass before I came out again. Today I know 
that it happened in order to bring the greatest possible amount of 



light into the darkness. It was an initiation into the realm of 
darkness. My intellectual life had its unconscious beginnings at that 
time. 

I no longer remember our move to Klein-Huningen, near Basel, in 
1879. But I do have a memory of something that happened several 
years later. One evening my father took me out of bed and carried 
me in his arms to our porch, which faced west. He showed me the 
evening sky, shimmering in the most glorious green. That was after 
the eruption of Krakatoa, in 1883. Another time my father took me 
outside and showed me a large comet on the eastern horizon. 

And once there was a great flood. The river Wiese, which flowed 
through the village, had broken its dam, and in its upper reaches a 
bridge had collapsed. Fourteen people were drowned and were 
carried down by the yellow flood water to the Rhine. When the water 
retreated, some of the corpses got stuck in the sand. When I was 
told about it, there was no holding me. I actually found the body of a 
middle-aged man, in a black frock coat; apparently he had just 
come from church. He lay half covered by sand, his arm over his 
eyes. Similarly, I was fascinated to watch a pig being slaughtered. 
To the horror of my mother, I watched the whole procedure. She 
thought it terrible, but the slaughtering and the dead man were 
simply matters of interest to me. 

My earliest memories of art go back to those years at Klein- 
Huningen. The house where my parents lived was the eighteenth- 
century parsonage, and in it there was a dark room. Here all the 
furniture was good, and old paintings hung on the walls. I particularly 
remember an Italian painting of David and Goliath. It was a mirror 
copy from the workshop of Guido Reni; the original hangs in the 
Louvre. How it came into our family I do not know. There was 
another old painting in that room which now hangs in my son's 
house: a landscape of Basel dating from the early nineteenth 



century. Often I would steal into that dark, sequestered room and sit 
for hours in front of the pictures, gazing at all this beauty. It was the 
only beautiful thing I knew. 

About that time-l must still have been a very little fellow, no more 
than six years old-an aunt took me to Basel and showed me the 
stuffed animals in the museum. We stayed a long time, because I 
wanted to look at everything very carefully. At four O'clock the bell 
rang, a sign that the museum was about to close. My aunt nagged 
at me, but I could not tear myself away from the showcases. In the 
meantime the room had been locked, and we had to go by another 
way to the staircase, through the gallery of antiquities. Suddenly I 
was standing before these marvelous figures! Utterly overwhelmed, 
I opened my eyes wide, for I had never seen anything so beautiful. I 
could not look at them long enough. My aunt pulled me by the hand 
to the exit— I trailing always a step behind her-crying out, 
"Disgusting boy, shut your eyes; disgusting boy, shut your eyes!" 
Only then did I see that the figures were naked and wore fig leaves. 
I hadn't noticed it at all before. Such was my first encounter with the 
fine arts. My aunt was simmering with indignation, as though she 
had been dragged through a pornographic institute. When I was six 
years old, my parents took me on an excursion to Arlesheim. On 
this occasion my mother wore a dress I have never forgotten, and it 
is the only dress of hers that I can recall: it was of some black stuff 
printed all over with little green crescents. My earliest recollection of 
my mother is of a slender young woman wearing this dress. In all my 
other memories she is older and corpulent. 

We came to a church, and my mother said, "That is a Catholic 
church." My curiosity, mingled with fear, prompted me to slip away 
from my mother and peer through the open door into the interior. I 
just had time to glimpse the big candles on a richly adorned altar (it 
was around Easter) when I suddenly stumbled on a step and struck 
my chin on a piece of iron. I remember that I had a gash that was 



bleeding badly when my parents picked me up. My state of mind 
was curious: on the one hand I was ashamed because my screams 
were attracting the attention of the churchgoers, and on the other 
hand I felt that I had done something forbidden. "Jesuits-green 
curtain-secret of the man-eater.... So that is the Catholic Church 
which has to do with Jesuits. It is their fault that I stumbled and 
screamed." 

For years afterward I was unable to set foot inside a Catholic 
church without a secret fear of blood and falling and Jesuits. That 
was the aura or atmosphere that hung about it, but at the same time 
it always fascinated me. The proximity of a Catholic priest made 
me even more uneasy, if that were possible. Not until I was in my 
thirties was I able to confront Mater Ecclesia without this sense of 
oppression. The first time was in St. Stephen's Cathedral in Vienna. 

Soon after I was six my father began giving me Latin lessons, and I 
also went to school. I did not mind school; it was easy for me, since 
I was always ahead of the others and had learned to read before I 
went there. However, I remember a time when I could not yet read, 
but pestered my mother to read aloud to me out of the Orbis Pictus, 
an old, richly illustrated children's book, which contained an account 
of exotic religions, especially that of the Hindus. There were 
illustrations of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva which I found an 
inexhaustible source of interest. My mother later told me that I 
always returned to these pictures. 

Whenever I did so, I had an obscure feeling of their affinity with my 
"original revelation"-which I never spoke of to anyone. It was a 
secret I must never betray. Indirectly, my mother confirmed this 
feeling, for the faint tone of contempt with which she spoke of 
"heathens" did not escape me. I knew that she would reject my 
"revelation" with horror, and I did not want to expose myself to any 
such injury. 



This unchildlike behavior was connected on the one hand with an 
intense sensitivity and vulnerability, on the other hand-and this 
especially-with the loneliness of my early youth. (My sister was born 
nine years after me.) I played alone, and in my own way. 
Unfortunately 1 cannot remember what I played; I recall only that I did 
not want to be disturbed. I was deeply absorbed in my games and 
could not endure being watched or judged while I played them. My 
first concrete memory of games dates from my seventh or eighth 
year. I was passionately fond of playing with bricks, and built towers 
which I then rapturously destroyed by an "earthquake." Between my 
eighth and eleventh years I drew endlessly-battle pictures, sieges, 
bombardments, naval engagements. Then I filled a whole exercise 
book with ink blots and amused myself giving them fantastic 
interpretations. One of my reasons for liking school was that there I 
found at last the playmates I had lacked for so long. 

At school, I also discovered something else. But before I go into this 
I should first mention that the nocturnal atmosphere had begun to 
thicken. All sorts of things were happening at night, things 
incomprehensible and alarming. My parents were sleeping apart. I 
slept in my father's room. From the door to my mother's room came 
frightening influences. At night Mother was strange and mysterious. 
One night I saw coming from her door a faintly luminous, indefinite 
figure whose head detached itself from the neck and floated along 
in front of it, in the air, like a little moon. Immediately another head 
was produced and again detached itself. This process was 
repeated six or seven times. I had anxiety dreams of things that 
were now small, now large. For instance, I saw a tiny ball at a great 
distance; gradually it approached, growing steadily into a 
monstrous and suffocating object. Or I saw telegraph wires with 
birds sitting on them, and the wires grew thicker and thicker and my 
fear greater until the terror awoke me. 



Although these dreams were overtures to the physiological changes 
of puberty, they had in their turn a prelude which occurred about my 
seventh year. At that time I was sick with pseudo-croup, 
accompanied by choking fits. One night during an attack I stood at 
the foot of the bed, my head bent back over the bed rail, while my 
father held me under the arms. Above me I saw a glowing blue 
circle about the size of the full moon, and inside it moved golden 
figures which I thought were angels. This vision was repeated, and 
each time it allayed my fear of suffocation. But the suffocation 
returned in the anxiety dreams. I see in this a psychogenic factor: 
the atmosphere of the house was beginning to be unbreathable. 

I hated going to church. The one exception was Christmas Day. The 
Christmas carol "This Is the Day That God Has Made" pleased me 
enormously. And then in the evening, of course, came the 
Christmas tree. Christmas was the only Christian festival I could 
celebrate with fervor. All others left me cold. New Year's Eve alone 
had something of the attractiveness of Christmas, but definitely took 
second place; Advent had a quality about it that somehow did not fit 
in with the coming Christmas. It had to do with night, storms, and 
wind, and also with the darkness of the house. There was 
something whispering, something queer going on. 

I return now to the discovery I made in the course of associating 
with my rustic schoolmates. I found that they alienated me from 
myself. When I was with them I became different from the way I was 
at home. I joined in their pranks, or invented ones which at home 
would never have occurred to me, so it seemed; although, as I knew 
only too well, I could hatch up all sorts of things when I was alone. It 
seemed to me that the change in myself was due to the influence of 
my schoolfellows, who somehow misled me or compelled me to be 
different from what I thought I was. The influence of this wider world, 
this world which contained others besides my parents, seemed to 
me dubious if not altogether suspect and, in some obscure way, 



hostile. Though I became increasingly aware of the beauty of the 
bright daylight world where "golden sunlight filters through green 
leaves," at the same time I had a premonition of an inescapable 
world of shadows filled with frightening, unanswerable questions 
which had me at their mercy. My nightly prayer did, of course, grant 
me a ritual protection since it concluded the day properly and just 
as properly ushered in night and sleep. But the new peril lurked by 
day. It was as if I sensed a splitting of myself, and feared it. My inner 
security was threatened. 

I also recall from this period (seven to nine) that I was fond of 
playing with fire. In our garden there was an old wall built of large 
blocks of stone, the interstices of which made interesting caves. I 
used to tend a little fire in one of these caves, with other children 
helping me; a fire that had to bum forever and therefore had to be 
constantly maintained by our united efforts, which consisted in 
gathering the necessary wood. No one but myself was allowed to 
tend this fire. Others could light other fires in other caves, but these 
fires were profane and did not concern me. My fire alone was living 
and had an unmistakable aura of sanctity. 

In front of this wall was a slope in which was embedded a stone that 
jutted out-my stone. Often, when I was alone, I sat down on this 
stone, and then began an imaginary game that went something like 
this: "I am sitting on top of this stone and it is underneath." But the 
stone also could say "I" and think: 

"I am lying here on this slope and he is sitting on top of me." The 
question then arose: '"Am I the one who is sitting on the stone, or 
am I the stone on which he is sitting?" This question always 
perplexed me, and I would stand up, wondering who was what now. 
The answer remained totally unclear, and my uncertainty was 
accompanied by a feeling of curious and fascinating darkness. But 
there was no doubt whatsoever that this stone stood in some secret 



relationship to me. I could sit on it for hours, fascinated by the puzzle 
it set me. 

Thirty years later I again stood on that slope. I was a married man, 
had children, a house, a place in the world, and a head full of ideas 
and plans, and suddenly I was again the child who had kindled a fire 
full of secret significance and sat down on a stone without knowing 
whether it was I or I was it. I thought suddenly of my life in Zurich, 
and it seemed alien to me, like news from some remote world and 
time. This was frightening, for the world of my childhood in which I 
had just become absorbed was eternal, and I had been wrenched 
away from it and had fallen into a time that continued to roll onward, 
moving farther and farther away. The pull of that other world was so 
strong that I had to tear myself violently from the spot in order not to 
lose hold of my future. 

I have never forgotten that moment, for it illuminated in a flash of 
lightning the quality of eternity in my childhood. What this meant was 
revealed soon afterward, in my tenth year. My disunion with myself 
and uncertainty in the world at large led me to an action which at the 
time was quite incomprehensible to me. I had in those days a 
yellow, varnished pencil case of the kind commonly used by 
primary-school pupils, with a little lock and the customary ruler. At 
the end of this ruler I now carved a little manikin, about two inches 
long, with frock coat, top hat, and shiny black boots. I colored him 
black with ink, sawed him off the ruler, and put him in the pencil 
case, where I made him a little bed. I even made a coat for him out 
of a bit of wool. In the case I also placed a smooth, oblong blackish 
stone from the Rhine, which I had painted with water colors to look 
as though it were divided into an upper and lower half, and had long 
carried around in my trouser pocket. This was his stone. All this was 
a great secret. Secretly I took the case to the forbidden attic at the 
top of the house (forbidden because the floorboards were worm- 
eaten and rotten) and hid it with great satisfaction on one of the 



beams under the roof-for no one must ever see it! I knew that not a 
soul would ever find it there. No one could discover my secret and 
destroy it. I felt safe, and the tormenting sense of being at odds with 
myself was gone. In all diflicult situations, whenever I had done 
something wrong or my feelings had been hurt, or when my father's 
irritability or my mother's invalidism oppressed me, I thought of my 
carefully bedded-down and wrapped-up manikin and his smooth, 
prettily colored stone. From time to time-often at intervals of 
weeks-l secretly stole up to the attic when I could be certain that no 
one would see me. Then I clambered up on the beam, opened the 
case, and looked at my manikin and his stone. Each time I did this I 
placed in the case a little scroll of paper on which I had previously 
written something during school hours in a secret language of my 
own invention. The addition of a new scroll always had the character 
of a solemn ceremonial act. Unfortunately I cannot remember what I 
wanted to communicate to the manikin. I only know that my "letters" 
constituted a kind of library for him. I fancy, though I cannot be 
certain, that they may have consisted of sayings that particularly 
pleased me. 

The meaning of these actions, or how I might explain them, never 
worried me. I contented myself with the feeling of newly won 
security, and was satisfied to possess something that no one knew 
and no one could get at. It was an inviolable secret which must 
never be betrayed, for the safety of my life depended on it. Why that 
was so I did not ask myself. It simply was so. 

This possession of a secret had a very powerful formative influence 
on my character; I consider it the essential factor of my boyhood. 
Similarly, I never told anyone about the dream of the phallus; and 
the Jesuit, too, belonged to that mysterious realm which I knew I 
must not talk about. The little wooden figure with the stone was a 
first attempt, still unconscious and childish, to give shape to the 
secret. I was always absorbed by it and had the feeling I ought to 



fathom it; and yet I did not know what it was I was trying to express. I 
always hoped I might be able to find something-perhaps in nature- 
that would give me the clue and show me where or what the secret 
was. At that time my interest in plants, animals, and stones grew. I 
was constantly on the lookout for something mysterious. 
Consciously, I was religious in the Christian sense, though always 
with the reservation: "But it is not so certain as all that!" or, "What 
about that thing under the ground?" And when religious teachings 
were pumped into me and I was told, "This is beautiful and this is 
good," I would think to myself: "Yes, but there is something else, 
something very secret that people don't know about." 

The episode with the carved manikin formed the climax and the 
conclusion of my childhood. It lasted about a year. Thereafter I 
completely forgot the whole affair until I was thirty-five. Then this 
fragment of memory rose up again from the mists of childhood with 
pristine clarity. While I was engaged on the preliminary studies for 
my book Wandlungen und Symbole der Libido. I read about the 
cache of soul-stones nearArlesheim, and the Australian churingas. 
I suddenly discovered that I had a quite definite image of such a 
stone, though I had never seen any reproductions. It was oblong, 
blackish, and painted into an upper and lower half. This image was 
joined by that of the 

* Translated as Psychology of the Unconscebus, 1917; reused edition, 
retitled Symbols of Transformation (CW 5), 1956. 

pencil box and the manikin. The manikin was a little cloaked god of 
the ancient world, a Telesphoros such as stands on the monuments 
of Asklepios and reads to him from a scroll. Along with this 
recollection there came to me, for the first time, the conviction that 
there are archaic psychic components which have entered the 
individual psyche without any direct line of tradition. My father's 
library-which I examined only very much later-contained not a 



single book which might have transmitted any such information. 
Moreover, my father demonstrably knew nothing about these things. 

When I was in England in 1920, I carved out of wood two similar 
figures without having the slightest recollection of that childhood 
experience. One of them I had reproduced on a larger scale in 
stone, and this figure now stands in my garden in Kusnacht. Only 
while I was doing this work did the unconscious supply me with a 
name. It called the figure Atmavictu-the "breath of life." It was a 
further development of that fearful tree of my childhood dream, 
which was now revealed as the "breath of life," the creative impulse. 
Ultimately, the manikin was a kabir, wrapped in his little cloak, 
hidden in the kista, and provided with a supply of life-force, the 
oblong black stone. But these are connections which became clear 
to me only much later in life. When I was a child I performed the 
ritual just as I have seen it done by the natives of Africa; they act first 
and do not know what they are doing. Only long afterward do they 
reflect on what they have done. 



School Years 



MY ELEVENTH Year was significant for me in another way, as I 
was then sent to the Gymnasium in Basel. Thus I was taken away 
from my rustic playmates, and truly entered the "great world," where 
powerful personages, far more powerful than my father, lived in big, 
splendid houses, drove about in expensive carriages drawn by 
magnificent horses, and talked a refined German and French. Their 
sons, well dressed, equipped with fine manners and plenty of 
pocket money, were now my classmates. With great astonishment 
and a horrible secret envy I heard them tell about their vacations in 
the Alps. They had been among those glowing snowy peaks near 
Zurich, had even been to the sea-this last absolutely flabbergasted 
me. I gazed upon them as if they were beings from another world, 
from that unattainable glory of flaming, snow-covered mountains 
and from the remote, unimaginable sea. Then, for the first time, I 
became aware how poor we were, that my father was a poor 
country parson and I a still poorer parson's son who had holes in his 
shoes and had to sit for six hours in school with wet socks. I began 
to see my parents with different eyes, and to understand their cares 
and worries. For my father in particular I felt compassionless, 
curiously enough, for my mother. She always seemed to me the 
stronger of the two. 

Nevertheless I always felt on her side when my father gave vent to 
his moody irritability. This necessity for taking sides was not exactly 
favorable to the formation of my character. In order to liberate 
myself from these conflicts I fell into the role of the superior 
arbitrator who willy-nilly had to judge his parents. That caused a 
certain inflatedness in me; my unstable self-assurance was 



increased and diminished at the same time. 

When I was nine years old my mother had had a little girl. My father 
was excited and pleased. "Tonight you've been given a little sister," 
he said to me, and I was utterly surprised, for I hadn't noticed 
anything. I had thought nothing of my mother's lying in bed more 
frequently than usual, for I considered her taking to her bed an 
inexcusable weakness in any case. My father brought me to my 
mother's bedside, and she held out a little creature that looked 
dreadfully disappointing: a red, shrunken face like an old man's, the 
eyes closed, and probably as blind as a young puppy, I thought. On 
its back the thing had a few single long red hairs which were shown 
to me-had it been intended for a monkey? I was shocked and did 
not know what to feel. Was this how newborn babies looked? They 
mumbled something about the stork which was supposed to have 
brought the baby. But then what about a litter of puppies or kittens? 
How many times would the stork have to fly back and forth before 
the litter was complete? And what about cows? I could not imagine 
how the stork could manage to carry a whole calf in its bill. Besides, 
the farmers said the cow calved, not that the stork brought the calf. 
This story was obviously another of those humbugs which were 
always being imposed on me. I felt sure that my mother had once 
again done something I was supposed not to know about. 

This sudden appearance of my sister left me with a vague sense of 
distrust which sharpened my curiosity and observation. Subsequent 
odd reactions on the part of my mother confirmed my suspicions 
that something regrettable was connected with this birth. Otherwise 
this event did not bother me very much, though it probably 
contributed to intensifying an experience I had when I was twelve. 

My mother had the unpleasant habit of calling after me all sorts of 
good advice when I was setting out for some place to which I had 
been invited. On these occasions I not only wore my best clothes 



and polished shoes, but felt the dignity of my purpose and of my 
appearance in public, so that it was a humiliation for me to have 
people on the street hear all the ignominious things my mother 
called out after me, "And don't forget to give them regards from 
Papa and Mama, and wipe your nose-do you have a 
handkerchief? Have you washed your hands?" And so on. It struck 
me as definitely unfair that the inferiority feelings which 
accompanied my self-importance should thus be exposed to the 
world when I had taken every care, out of amour-propre and vanity, 
to present as irreproachable an appearance as possible. For these 
occasions meant a very great deal to me. On the way to the house 
to which I was invited I felt important and dignified, as I always did 
when I wore my Sunday clothes on a weekday. The picture changed 
radically, however, as soon as I came in sight of the house I was 
visiting. Then a sense of the grandeur and power of those people 
overcame me. I was afraid of them, and in my smallness wished I 
might sink fathoms deep into the ground. That was how I felt when I 
rang the bell. The tinkling sound from inside rang like the toll of 
doom in my ears. I felt as timid and craven as a stray dog. It was 
ever so much worse when my mother had prepared me properly 
beforehand. Then the bell would ring in my ears: "My shoes are 
filthy, and so are my hands; I have no handkerchief and my neck is 
black with dirt." Out of defiance I would then not convey my parents' 
regards, or I would act with unnecessary shyness and 
stubbornness. If things became too bad I would think of my secret 
treasure in the attic, and that helped me regain my poise. For in my 
forlorn state I remembered that I was also the "Other," the person 
who possessed that inviolable secret, the black stone and the little 
man in frock coat and top hat. 

I cannot recall in my boyhood ever having thought of the possibility 
of a connection between Lord Jesus-or the Jesuit in the black 
robe-the men in frock coats and top hats standing by the grave, the 



gravelike hole in the meadow, the underground temple of the 
phallus, and my little man in the pencil case. The dream of the 
ithyphallic god was my first great secret; the manikin was the 
second. It does seem to me, however, that I had a vague sense of 
relationship between the "soulstone" and the stone which was also 
myself. 

To this day, writing down my memories at the age of eighty-three, I 
have never fully unwound the tangle of my earliest memories. They 
are like individual shoots of a single underground rhizome, like 
stations on a road of unconscious development. While it became 
increasingly impossible for me to adopt a positive attitude to Lord 
Jesus, I remember that from the time I was eleven the idea of God 
began to interest me. I took to praying to God, and this somehow 
satisfied me because it was a prayer without contradictions. God 
was not complicated by my distrust. Moreover, he was not a person 
in a black robe, and not Lord Jesus of the pictures, draped with 
brightly colored clothes, with whom people behaved so familiarly. 
Rather he was a unique being of whom, so I heard, it was 
impossible to form any correct conception. He was, to be sure, 
something like a very powerful old man. But to my great satisfaction 
there was a commandment to the effect that "Thou shalt not make 
unto thee any graven image or any likeness of anything." Therefore 
one could not deal with him as familiarly as with Lord Jesus, who 
was no "secret." A certain analogy with my secret in the attic began 
to dawn on me. 

School came to bore me. It took up far too much time which I would 
rather have spent drawing battles and playing with fire. Divinity 
classes were unspeakably dull, and I felt a downright fear of the 
mathematics class. The teacher pretended that algebra was a 
perfectly natural affair, to be taken for granted, whereas I didn't even 
know what numbers really were. They were not flowers, not animals, 
not fossils; they were nothing that could be imagined, mere 



quantities that resulted from counting. To my confusion these 
quantities were now represented by letters, which signified sounds, 
so that it became possible to hear them, so to speak. Oddly 
enough, my classmates could handle these things and found them 
self-evident. No one could tell me what numbers were, and I was 
unable even to formulate the question. To my horror I found that no 
one understood my difficulty. The teacher, I must admit, went to 
great lengths to explain to me the purpose of this curious operation 
of translating understandable quantities into sounds. I finally 
grasped that what was aimed at was a kind of system of 
abbreviation, with the help of which many quantities could be put in 
a short formula. But this did not interest me in the least. I thought the 
whole business was entirely arbitrary. Why should numbers be 
expressed by sounds? One might just as well express a by apple 
tree, b by box, and x by a question mark, a, b, c, x, y, z: were not 
concrete and did not explain to me anything about the essence of 
numbers, any more than an apple tree did. But the thing that 
exasperated me most of all was the proposition: If a = b and b = c, 
then a = c, even though by definition a meant something other than 
b, and, being different, could therefore not be equated with b, let 
alone with c. 

Whenever it was a question of an equivalence, then it was said that 
a : a, b : b, and so on. This I could accept, whereas a : b seemed to 
me a downright lie or a fraud. I was equally outraged when the 
teacher stated in the teeth of his own definition of parallel lines that 
they met at infinity. This seemed to me no better than a stupid trick 
to catch peasants with, and I could not and would not have anything 
to do with it. My intellectual morality fought against these whimsical 
inconsistencies, which have forever debarred me from 
understanding mathematics. Right into old age I have had the 
incorrigible feeling that if, like my schoolmates, I could have 
accepted without a struggle the proposition that a : b, or that sun : 



moon, dog = cat, then mathematics might have fooled me 
endlessly-just how much I only began to realize at the age of eighty- 
four. All my life it remained a puzzle to me why it was that I never 
managed to get my bearings in mathematics when there was no 
doubt whatever that I could calculate properly. Least of all did I 
understand my own moral doubts concerning mathematics. 

Equations I could comprehend only by inserting specific numerical 
values in place of the letters and verifying the meaning of the 
operation by actual calculation. As we went on in mathematics I was 
able to get along, more or less, by copying out algebraic formulas 
whose meaning I did not understand, and by memorizing where a 
particular combination of letters had stood on the blackboard. I 
could no longer make headway by substituting numbers, for from 
time to time the teacher would say, "Here we put the expression so- 
and-so," and then he would scribble a few letters on the blackboard. 
I had no idea where he got them and why he did it— the only reason I 
could see was that it enabled him to bring the procedure to what he 
felt was a satisfactory conclusion. I was so intimidated by my 
incomprehension that I did not dare to ask any questions. 

Mathematics classes became sheer terror and torture to me. Other 
subjects I found easy; and as, thanks to my good visual memory, I 
contrived for a long while to swindle my way through mathematics, I 
usually had good marks. But my fear of failure and my sense of 
smallness in face of the vast world around me created in me not 
only a dislike but a kind of silent despair which completely ruined 
school for me. In addition, I was exempted from drawing classes on 
grounds of utter incapacity. This in a way was welcome to me, since 
it gave me more free time; but on the other hand it was a fresh 
defeat, since I had some facility in drawing, although I did not 
realize that it depended essentially on the way I was feeling. I could 
draw only what stirred my imagination. But I was forced to copy 
prints of Greek gods with sightless eyes, and when that wouldn't go 



properly the teacher obviously thought I needed something more 
naturalistic and set before me the picture of a goat's head. This 
assignment I failed completely, and that was the end of my drawing 
classes. 

To my defeats in mathematics and drawing there was now added a 
third: from the very first I hated gymnastics. I could not endure 
having others tell me how to move. I was going to school in order to 
learn something, not to practice useless and senseless acrobatics. 
Moreover, as a result of my earlier accidents, I had a certain 
physical timidity which I was not able to overcome until much later 
on. This timidity was in turn linked with a distrust of the world and its 
potentialities. To be sure, the world seemed to me beautiful and 
desirable, but it was also filled with vague and incomprehensible 
perils. Therefore I always wanted to know at the start to what and to 
whom I was entrusting myself. Was this perhaps connected with my 
mother, who had abandoned me for several months? When, as I 
shall describe later, my neurotic fainting spells began, the doctor 
forbade me to engage in gymnastics, much to my satisfaction. I was 
rid of that burden-and had swallowed another defeat. 

The time thus gained was not spent solely on play. It permitted me 
to indulge somewhat more freely the absolute craving I had 
developed to read every scrap of printed matter that fell into my 
hands. 

My twelfth year was indeed a fateful one for me. One day in the 
early summer of 1887 I was standing in the cathedral square, 
waiting for a classmate who went home by the same route as 
myself. It was twelve o'clock, and the morning classes were over. 
Suddenly another boy gave me a shove that knocked me off my 
feet. I fell, striking my head against the curbstone so hard that I 
almost lost consciousness. For about half an hour afterward I was a 
little dazed. At the moment I felt the blow the thought flashed through 



my mind: "Now you won't have to go to school any more." I was only 
half unconscious, but I remained lying there a few moments longer 
than was strictly necessary, chiefly in order to avenge myself on my 
assailant. Then people picked me up and took me to a house 
nearby, where two elderly spinster aunts lived. 

From then on I began to have fainting spells whenever I had to 
return to school, and whenever my parents set me to doing my 
homework. For more than six months I stayed away from school, 
and for me that was a picnic. I was free, could dream for hours, be 
anywhere I liked, in the woods or by the water, or draw. I resumed 
my battle pictures and furious scenes of war, of old castles that 
were being assaulted or burned, or drew page upon page of 
caricatures. Similar caricatures sometimes appear to me before 
falling asleep to this day, grinning masks that constantly move and 
change, among them familiar faces of people who soon afterward 
died. 

Above all, I was able to plunge into the world of the mysterious. To 
that realm belonged trees, a pool, the swamp, stones and animals, 
and my father's library. But I was growing more and more away from 
the world, and had all the while faint pangs of conscience. I frittered 
away my time with loafing, collecting, reading, and playing. But I did 
not feel any happier for it; I had the obscure feeling that I was fleeing 
from myself. 

I forgot completely how all this had come about, but I pitied my 
parents' worries. They consulted various doctors, who scratched 
their heads and packed me off to spend the holidays with relatives 
in Winterthur. This city had a railroad station that proved a source of 
endless delight to me. But when I returned home everything was as 
before. One doctor thought I had epilepsy. I knew what epileptic fits 
were like and I inwardly laughed at such nonsense. My parents 
became more worried than ever. Then one day a friend called on 



my father. They were sitting in the garden and I hid behind a shrub, 
for I was possessed of an insatiable curiosity. I heard the visitor 
saying to my father, "And how is your son?" "Ah, that's a sad 
business," my father replied. "The doctors no longer know what is 
wrong with him. They think it may be epilepsy. It would be dreadful if 
he were incurable. I have lost what little I had, and what will become 
of the boy if he cannot earn his own living?" 

I was thunderstruck. This was the collision with reality. 

"Why, then, I must get to work!" I thought suddenly. 

From that moment on I became a serious child. I crept away, went 
to my father's study, took out my Latin grammar, and began to cram 
with intense concentration. After ten minutes of this I had the finest 
of fainting fits. I almost fell off the chair, but after a few minutes I felt 
better and went on working. 

"Devil take it, I'm not going to faint," I told myself, and persisted in 
my purpose. This time it took about fifteen minutes before the 
second attack came. That, too, passed like the first. "And now you 
must really get to workl" I stuck it out, and after an hour came the 
third attack. Still I did not give up, and worked for another hour, until I 
had the feeling that I had overcome the attacks. Suddenly I felt 
better than I had in all the months before. And in fact the attacks did 
not recur. From that day on I worked over my grammar and other 
schoolbooks every day. A few weeks later I returned to school, and 
never suffered another attack, even there. The whole bag of tricks 
was over and done with! That was when I learned what a neurosis 



Gradually the recollection of how it had all come about returned to 
me, and I saw clearly that I myself had arranged this whole 
disgraceful situation. That was why I had never been seriously angry 



with the schoolmate who pushed me over. I knew that he had been 
put up to it, so to speak, and that the whole affair was a diabolical 
plot on my part. I knew, too, that this was never going to happen to 
me again. I had a feeling of rage against myself, and at the same 
time was ashamed of myself. For I knew that I had wronged myself 
and made a fool of myself in my own eyes. Nobody else was to 
blame; I was the cursed renegade! From then on I could no longer 
endure my parents' worrying about me or speaking of me in a 
pitying tone. 

The neurosis became another of my secrets, but it was a shameful 
secret, a defeat. Nevertheless it induced in me a studied 
punctiliousness and an unusual diligence. Those days saw the 
beginnings of my conscientiousness, practiced not for the sake of 
appearances, so that I would amount to something, but for my own 
sake. Regularly I would get up at five o'clock in order to study, and 
sometimes I worked from three in the morning till seven, before 
going to school. 

What had led me astray during the crisis, was my passion for being 
alone, my delight in solitude. Nature seemed to me full of wonders, 
and I wanted to steep myself in them. Every stone, every plant, 
every single thing seemed alive and indescribably marvelous. I 
immersed myself in nature, crawled, as it were, into the very 
essence of nature and away from the whole human world. 

I had another important experience at about this time. I was taking 
the long road to school from Klein-Huningen, where we lived, to 
Basel, when suddenly for a single moment I had the overwhelming 
impression of having just emerged from a dense cloud. I knew all at 
once: now I am myself! It was as if a wall of mist were at my back, 
and behind that wall there was not yet an "I". But at this moment I 
came upon myself. Previously I had existed, too, but everything had 
merely happened to me. 



Now I happened to myself. Now I knew: I am myself now, now I exist. 
Previously I had been willed to do this and that; now I willed. This 
experience seemed to me tremendously important and new: there 
was "authority" in me. Curiously enough, at this time and also during 
the months of my fainting neurosis I had lost all memory of the 
treasure in the attic. Otherwise I would probably have realized even 
then the analogy between my feeling of authority and the feeling of 
value which the treasure inspired in me. But that was not so; all 
memory of the pencil case had vanished. 

Around this time I was invited to spend the holidays with friends of 
the family who had a house on Lake Lucerne. To my delight the 
house was situated right on the lake, and there was a boathouse 
and a rowboat. My host allowed his son and me to use the boat, 
although we were sternly warned not to be reckless. Unfortunately I 
also knew how to steer a Waidling (a boat of the gondola type)-that 
is to say, standing. At home we had such a punt, in which we had 
tried out every imaginable trick. The first thing I did, therefore, was 
to take my stand on the stern set and with one oar push off into the 
lake. That was too much for the anxious master of the house. He 
whistled us back and gave me a first-class dressing-down. I was 
thoroughly crest-fallen but had to admit that I had done exactly what 
he had said not to, and that his lecture was quite justified. At the 
same time I was seized with rage that this fat, ignorant boor should 
dare to insult ME. This ME was not only grown up, but important, an 
authority, a person with office and dignity, an old man, an object of 
respect and awe. Yet the contrast with reality was so grotesque that 
in the midst of my fury I suddenly stopped myself, for the question 
rose to my lips: "'Who in the world are you, anyway? 

You are reacting as though you were the devil only knows how 
important! And yet you know he is perfectly right. You are barely 
twelve years old, a schoolboy, and he is a father and a rich, 



powerful man besides, who owns two houses and several splendid 
horses." 

Then, to my intense confusion, it occurred to me that I was actually 
two different persons. One of them was the schoolboy who could 
not grasp algebra and was far from sure of himself; the other was 
important, a high authority, a man not to be trifled with, as powerful 
and influential as this manufacturer. This "other" was an old man 
who lived in the eighteenth century, wore buckled shoes and a white 
wig and went driving in a fly with high, concave rear wheels between 
which the box was suspended on springs and leather straps. 

This notion sprang from a curious experience I had had. When we 
were living in Klein-Huningen an ancient green carriage from the 
Black Forest drove past our house one day. It was truly an antique, 
looking exactly as if it had come straight out of the eighteenth 
century. When I saw it, I felt with great excitement: "That's it! Sure 
enough, that comes from my times." It was as though I had 
recognized it because it was the same type as the one I had driven 
in myself. Then came a curious sentiment ecoeurant, as though 
someone had stolen something from me, or as though I had been 
cheated-cheated out of my beloved past. The carriage was a relic 
of those times! I cannot describe what was happening in me or 
what it was that affected me so strongly: a longing, a nostalgia, or a 
recognition that kept saying, "Yes, that's how it was! Yes, that's how 
it was!" 

I had still another experience that harked back to the eighteenth 
century. At the home of one of my aunts I had seen an eighteenth- 
century statuette, an old terra-cotta piece consisting of two painted 
figures. One of them was old Dr. Stuckelberger, a well-known 
personality in the city of Basel toward the end of the eighteenth 
century. The other figure was a patient of his; she was depicted with 
closed eyes, sticking out her tongue. The story went that old 



Stuckelberger was one day crossing the Rhine bridge when this 
annoying patient suddenly came up to him out of nowhere and 
babbled out a complaint. Old Stuckelberger said testily, "Yes, yes, 
there must be something wrong with you. Put out your tongue and 
shut your eyes." The woman did so, and Stuckelberger instantly ran 
off, and she remained standing there with her tongue stuck out, 
while the people laughed. This statuette of the old doctor had 
buckled shoes which in a strange way I recognized as my own. I 
was convinced that these were shoes I had worn. The conviction 
drove me wild with excitement. "Why, those must be my shoes!" I 
could still feel those shoes on my feet, and yet I could not explain 
where this crazy feeling came from. I could not understand this 
identity I felt with the eighteenth century. Often in those days I would 
write the date 1786 instead of 1886, and each time this happened I 
was overcome by an inexplicable nostalgia. 

After my escapade with the boat, and my well-merited punishment, I 
began pondering these isolated impressions, and they coalesced 
into a coherent picture: of myself living in two ages simultaneously, 
and being two different persons. I felt confused, and was full to the 
brim with heavy reflections. At last I reached the disappointing 
realization that now, at any rate, I was nothing but the little schoolboy 
who had deserved his punishment, and who had to behave 
according to his age. The other person must be sheer nonsense. I 
suspected that he was somehow connected with the many tales I 
had heard from my parents and relatives about my grandfather. Yet 
that was not quite right either, for he had been born in 1 795 and had 
therefore lived in the nineteenth century; moreover he had died long 
before I was born. It could not be that I was identical with him. At the 
time these considerations were, I should say, mostly in the form of 
vague glimmerings and dreams. I can no longer remember whether 
at that time I knew anything about my legendary kinship with 
Goethe. I think not, however, for I know that I first heard this tale from 



strangers. I should add that there is an annoying tradition that my 
grandfather was a natural son of Goethe. [1 ] 

1 In regard to the legend, twice alluded to in this book, that Jung was a 
descendant of Goethe, he related: "The wife of my great-grandfather (Franz 
Ignaz Jung, d. 1831), Sophie Zegler, and her sister were associated with 
the Mannheim Theater and were friends of many writers. The story goes that 
Sophie Zegler had an illegitimate child by Goethe, and that this child was 
my grandfather, Carl Gustav Jung. This was considered yrtually an 
established fact. My grandfather says not a word about it in his diaries, 
however. He mentions only that he once saw Goethe in Weimar, and then 
merely from behind! Sophie Zegler Jung was later friendly with Lotte 
Kestner, a niece of Goethe's "Lottchen." This Lotte frequently came to see 
my grandfather-as, incidentally, did Franz Liszt. In later years Lotte Kestner 
settled in Basel, no doubt because of these close ties with the Jung family." 

No proof of this item of family tradition has been found in the 
available sources, the archives of the Goethehaus in Frankfurt am 
Main and the baptismal register in the Jesuitenkirche in Mannheim. 
Goethe was not in Mannheim at the period in question, and there is 
no record of Sophie Ziegler's staying in Weimar or anywhere in 
Goethe's vicinity. 

Jung used to speak of this stubbornly persistent legend with a 
certain gratified amusement, for it might serve to explain one subtle 
aspect of his fascination with Goethe's Faust; it belonged to an 
inner reality, as it were. On the other hand he would also call the 
story "annoying." He thought it "in bad taste" and maintained that 
the world was already full of "too many fools who tell such tales of 
the 'unknown father'. " Above all, he felt that the legitimate line of 
descent, in particular from the learned Catholic doctor and jurist 
Carl Jung (d. 1645)-discussed at the end of Chapter Vlll-was 
equally significant. — A. J. 

One fine summer day that same year I came out of school at noon 
and went to the cathedral square. The sky was gloriously blue, the 



day one of radiant sunshine. The roof of the cathedral glittered, the 
sun sparkling from the new, brightly glazed tiles. I was overwhelmed 
by the beauty of the sight, and thought: 

"The world is beautiful and the church is beautiful, and God made all 
this and sits above it far away in the blue sky on a golden throne 
and..." Here came a great hole in my thoughts, and a choking 
sensation. I felt numbed, and knew only: "Don't go on thinking now! 
Something terrible is coming, something I do not want to think, 
something I dare not even approach. Why not? Because I would be 
committing the most frightful of sins. What is the most terrible sin? 
Murder? No, it can't be that. The most terrible sin is the sin against 
the Holy Ghost, which cannot be forgiven. Anyone who commits that 
sin is damned to hell for all eternity. That would be very sad for my 
parents, if their only son, to whom they are so attached, should be 
doomed to eternal damnation. I cannot do that to my parents. All I 
need do is not go on thinking." 

That was easier said than done. On my long walk home I tried to 
think all sorts of other things, but I found my thoughts returning again 
and again to the beautiful cathedral which I loved so much, and to 
God sitting on the throne-and then my thoughts would fly off again 
as if they had received a powerful electric shock. I kept repeating to 
myself: "Don't think of it, just don't think of itl" I reached home in a 
pretty worked-up state. My mother noticed that something was 
wrong, and asked, "What is the matter with you? Has something 
happened at school?" I was able to assure her, without lying, that 
nothing had happened at school. I did have the thought that it might 
help me if I could confess to my mother the real reason for my 
turmoil. But to do so I would have to do the very thing that seemed 
impossible: think my thought right to the end. The poor dear was 
utterly unsuspecting and could not possibly know that I was in 
terrible danger of committing the unforgivable sin and plunging 
myself into hell. I rejected the idea of confessing and tried to efface 



myself as much as possible. That night I slept badly; again and 
again the forbidden thought, which I did not yet know, tried to break 
out, and I struggled desperately to fend it off. The next two days 
were sheer torture, and my mother was convinced that I was ill. But I 
resisted the temptation to confess, aided by the thought that it 
would cause my parents intense sorrow. 

On the third night, however, the torment became so unbearable that 
I no longer knew what to do. I awoke from a restless sleep just in 
time to catch myself thinking again about the cathedral and God. I 
had almost continued the thought! I felt my resistance weakening. 
Sweating with fear, I sat up in bed to shake off sleep. "Now it is 
coming, now-it's serious! I must think. It must be thought out 
beforehand. Why should I think something I do not know? I don't 
want to, by God, that's sure. But who wants me to? Who wants to 
force me to think something I don't know and don't want to know? 
Where does this terrible will come from? And why should I be the 
one to be subjected to it? I was thinking praises of the Creator of 
this beautiful world, I was grateful to him for this immeasurable gift, 
so why should I have to think something inconceivably wicked? I 
don't know what it is, I really don't, for I cannot and must not come 
anywhere near this thought, for that would be to risk thinking it at 
once. I haven't done this or wanted this, it has come on me like a 
bad dream. Where do such things come from? This has happened 
to me without my doing. Why? After all, I didn't create myself, I came 
into the world the way God made me-that is, the way I was shaped 
by my parents. Or can it have been that my parents wanted 
something of this sort? But my good parents would never have had 
any thoughts like that. Nothing so atrocious would ever have 
occurred to them." 

I found this idea utterly absurd. Then I thought of my grandparents, 
whom I knew only from their portraits. They looked benevolent and 



dignified enough to repulse any idea that they might possibly be to 
blame. I mentally ran through the long procession of unknown 
ancestors until finally I arrived at Adam and Eve. And with them 
came the decisive thought: Adam and Eve were the first people; 
they had no parents, but were created directly by God, who 
intentionally made them as they were. They had no choice but to be 
exactly the way God had created them. Therefore they did not know 
how they could possibly be different. They were perfect creatures of 
God, for He creates only perfection, and yet they committed the first 
sin by doing what God did not want them to do. How was that 
possible? They could not have done it if God had not placed in 
them the possibility of doing it. That was clear, too, from the 
serpent, whom God had created before them, obviously so that it 
could induce Adam and Eve to sin. God in His omniscience had 
arranged everything so that the first parents would have to sin. 

Therefore it was God' s intention that they should sin. This thought 
liberated me instantly from my worst torment, since I now knew that 
God Himself had placed me in this situation. At first I did not know 
whether He intended me to commit my sin or not. I no longer thought 
of praying for illumination, since God had landed me in this fix 
without my willing it and had left me without any help. I was certain 
that I must search out His intention myself, and seek the way out 
alone. At this point another argument began. "What does God 
want? To act or not to act? I must find out what God wants with me, 
and I must find out right away." 

I was aware, of course, that according to conventional morality there 
was no question but that sin must be avoided. That was what I had 
been doing up to now, but I knew I could not go on doing it. My 
broken sleep and my spiritual distress had worn me out to such a 
point that fending off the thought was tying me into unbearable 
knots. This could not go on. At the same time, I could not yield 
before I understood what God's will was and what He intended. For 



I was now certain that He was the author of this desperate problem. 
Oddly enough, I did not think for a moment that the devil might be 
playing a trick on me. The devil played little part in my mental world 
at that time, and in any case I regarded him as powerless 
compared with God. But from the moment I emerged from the mist 
and became conscious of myself, the unity, the greatness, and the 
superhuman majesty of God began to haunt my imagination. Hence 
there was no question in my mind but that God Himself was 
arranging a decisive test for me, and that everything depended on 
my understanding Him correctly. I knew, beyond a doubt, that I 
would ultimately be compelled to break down, to give way, but I did 
not want it to happen without my understanding it, since the 
salvation of my eternal soul was at stake. 

"God knows that I cannot resist much longer, and He does not help 
me, although I am on the point of having to commit the unforgivable 
sin. In His omnipotence He could easily lift this compulsion from me, 
but evidently He is not going to. Can it be that He wishes to test my 
obedience by imposing on me the unusual task of doing something 
against my own moral judgment and against the teachings of my 
religion, and even against His own commandment, something I am 
resisting with all my strength because I fear eternal damnation? Is it 
possible that God wishes to see whether I am capable of obeying 
His will even though my faith and my reason raise before me the 
specters of death and hell? That might really be the answer! But 
these are merely my own thoughts. I may be mistaken. I dare not 
trust my own reasoning as far as that. I must think it all through once 
more." 

I thought it over again and arrived at the same conclusion. 
"Obviously God also desires me to show courage," I thought. "If that 
is so and I go through with it, then He will give me His grace and 
illumination? 



I gathered all my courage, as though I were about to leap forthwith 
into hell-fire, and let the thought come. I saw before me the 
cathedral, the blue sky. God sits on His golden throne, high above 
the world-and from under the throne an enormous turd falls upon 
the sparkling new roof, shatters it, and breaks the walls of the 
cathedral asunder. 

So that was it! I felt an enormous, an indescribable relief. Instead of 
the expected damnation, grace had come upon me, and with it an 
unutterable bliss such as I had never known. I wept for happiness 
and gratitude. The wisdom and goodness of God had been 
revealed to me now that I had yielded 'to His inexorable command. 
It was as though I had experienced an illumination. A great many 
things I had not previously understood became clear to me. That 
was what my father had not understood, I thought; he had failed to 
experience the will of God, had opposed it for the best reasons and 
out of the deepest faith. And that was why he had never 
experienced the miracle of grace which heals all and makes all 
comprehensible. He had taken the Bible's commandments as his 
guide; he believed in God as the Bible prescribed and as his 
forefathers had taught him. But he did not know the immediate living 
God who stands, omnipotent and free, above His Bible and His 
Church, who calls upon man to partake of His freedom, and can 
force him to renounce his own views and convictions in order to 
fulfill without reserve the command of God. In His trial of human 
courage God refuses to abide by traditions, no matter how sacred. 
In His omnipotence He will see to it that nothing really evil comes of 
such tests of courage. If one fulfills the will of God one can be sure 
of going the right way. 

God had also created Adam and Eve in such a way that they had to 
think what they did not at all want to think. He had done that in order 
to find out whether they were obedient. And He could also demand 
something of me that I would have had to reject on traditional 



religious grounds. It was obedience which brought me grace, and 
after that experience I knew what God's grace was. One must be 
utterly abandoned to God; nothing matters but fulfilling His will. 
Otherwise all is folly and meaninglessness. From that moment on, 
when I experienced grace, my true responsibility began. Why did 
God befoul His cathedral? That, for me, was a terrible thought. But 
then came the dim understanding that God could be something 
terrible. I had experienced a dark and terrible secret. It 
overshadowed my whole life, and I became deeply pensive. 

The experience also had the effect of increasing my sense of 
inferiority. I am a devil or a swine, I thought; I am infinitely depraved. 
But then I began searching through the New Testament and read, 
with a certain satisfaction, about the Pharisee and the publican, and 
that reprobates are the chosen ones. It made a lasting impression 
on me that the unjust steward was praised, and that Peter, the 
waverer, was appointed the rock upon which the Church was built. 

The greater my inferiority feelings became, the more 
incomprehensible did God's grace appear to me. After all, I had 
never been sure of myself. When my mother once said to me, "You 
have always been a good boy, I simply could not grasp it. I a good 
boy? That was quite new to me. I often thought of myself as a 
corrupt and inferior person. 

With the experience of God and the cathedral I at last had 
something tangible that was part of the great secret-as if I had 
always talked of stones falling from heaven and now had one in my 
pocket. But actually, it was a shaming experience. I had fallen into 
something bad, something evil and sinister, though at the same 
time it was a kind of distinction. Sometimes I had an overwhelming 
urge to speak, not about that, but only to hint that there were some 
curious things about me which no one knew of. I wanted to find out 
whether other people had undergone similar experiences. I never 



succeeded in discovering so much as a trace of them in others. As 
a result, I had the feeling that I was either outlawed or elect, 
accursed or blessed. 

It would never have occurred to me to speak of my experience 
openly, nor of my dream of the phallus in the underground temple, 
nor of my carved manikin. As a matter of fact, I did not say anything 
about the phallus dream until I was sixty-five. I may have spoken 
about the other experiences to my wife, but only in later years. A 
strict taboo hung over all these matters, inherited from my 
childhood. I could never have talked about them with friends. 

My entire youth can be understood in terms of this secret. It induced 
in me an almost unendurable loneliness. My one great achievement 
during those years was that I resisted the temptation to talk about it 
with anyone. Thus the pattern of my relationship to the world was 
already prefigured: today as then I am a solitary, because I know 
things and must hint at things which other people do not know, and 
usually do not; even want to know. 

In my mother's family there were six parsons, and on my father's 
side not only was my father a parson but two of my uncles also. 
Thus I heard many religious conversations, theological discussions, 
and sermons. Whenever I listened to them I had the feeling: "Yes, 
yes, that is all very well. But what about the secret? The secret is 
also the secret of grace. None of you know anything about that. You 
don't know that God wants to, force me to do wrong, that He forces 
me to think abominations in order to experience His grace." 
Everything the others said was completely beside the point. I 
thought, "For Heaven's sake, there must be someone who knows 
something about it; somewhere there must be the truth." I 
rummaged through my father's library, reading whatever I could on 
God, the Trinity, spirit, consciousness. I devoured the books, but 
came away none the wiser. I always found myself thinking, "They 



don't know either." 

I even searched about in my father's Luther Bible. Unfortunately, the 
conventional "edifying" interpretation of Job prevented me from 
taking a deeper interest in this book. I would have found consolation 
in it, especially in chapter 9, verses 30 ff.: "Though I wash myself 
with snow water... yet shalt thou plunge me in the mire." 

Later my mother told me that in those days I was often depressed. It 
was not really that; rather, I was brooding on the secret. At such 
times it was strangely reassuring and calming to sit on my stone. 
Somehow it would free me of all my doubts. Whenever I thought that 
I was the stone, the conflict ceased. 

"The stone has no uncertainties, no urge to communicate, and is 
eternally the same for thousands of years," I would think, "while I am 
only a passing phenomenon which bursts into all kinds of emotions, 
like a flame that flares up quickly and then goes out." I was but the 
sum of my emotions, and the other in me was the timeless, 
imperishable stone. 

At that time, too, there arose in me profound doubts about 
everything my father said. When I heard him preaching about grace, 
I always thought of my own experience. What he said sounded stale 
and hollow, like a tale told by someone who knows it only by 
hearsay and cannot quite believe it himself. I wanted to help him, 
but I did not know how. Moreover, I was too shy to tell him of my 
experience, or to meddle in his personal preoccupations. I felt 
myself to be on the one hand too little, and on the other hand I was 
afraid to wield that authority which my "second personality" inspired 



Later, when I was eighteen years old, I had many discussions with 
my father, always with the secret hope of being able to let him know 



about the miracle of grace, and thereby help to mitigate his pangs 
of conscience. I was convinced that if he fulfilled the will of God 
everything would turn out for the best. 

But our discussions invariably came to an unsatisfactory end. They 
irritated him, and saddened him. "Oh nonsense," he was in the 
habit of saying, "you always want to think. One ought not to think, but 
believe." I would think, "No, one must experience and know," but I 
would say, "Give me this belief," whereupon he would shrug and 
turn resignedly away. 

I began making friendships, mostly with shy boys of simple origins. 
My marks in school improved. During the following years I even 
succeeded in reaching the top of the class. However, I observed 
that below me were schoolmates who envied me and tried at every 
opportunity to catch up with me. That spoiled my pleasure. I hated 
all competition, and if someone played a game too competitively I 
turned my back on the game. Thereafter I remained second in the 
class, and found this considerably more enjoyable. Schoolwork was 
a nuisance enough anyway without my wanting to make it harder by 
competitiveness. A very few teachers, whom I remember with 
gratitude, showed particular confidence in me. The one I recall with 
the greatest pleasure was the Latin teacher. He was a university 
professor and a very clever fellow. As it happened, I had known 
Latin since I was six, because my father had given me lessons in it. 
So, instead of making me sit in class, this teacher would often send 
me to the university library to fetch books for him, and I would joyfully 
dip into them while prolonging the walk back as much as possible. 

Most of the teachers thought me stupid and crafty. Whenever 
anything went wrong in school I was the first on whom suspicion 
rested. If there was a row somewhere, I was thought to be the 
instigator. In reality I was involved in such a brawl only once, and it 
was then that I discovered that a number of my school-mates were 



hostile to me. Seven of them lay in ambush for me and suddenly 
attacked me. I was big and strong by then-it was when I was 
fifteen-and inclined to violent rages. I suddenly saw red, seized one 
of the boys by both arms, swung him around me and with his legs 
knocked several of the others to the ground. The teachers found out 
about the affair, but I only dimly remember some sort of punishment 
which seemed to me unjust. From then on I was let alone. No one 
dared to attack me again. 

To have enemies and be accused unjustly was not what I had 
expected, but somehow I did not find it incomprehensible. 
Everything I was reproached for irritated me, but I could not deny 
these reproaches to myself. I knew so little about myself, and the 
little was so contradictory that I could not with a good conscience 
reject any accusations. As a matter of fact I always had a guilty 
conscience and was aware of both actual and potential faults. For 
that reason I was particularly sensitive to reproofs, since all of them 
more or less struck home. Although I had not in reality done what I 
was accused of, I felt that I might have done it. I would even draw up 
a list of alibis in case I should be accused of something. I felt 
positively relieved when I had actually done something wrong. Then 
at least I knew what my guilty conscience was for. 

Naturally I compensated my inner insecurity by an outward show of 
security, or-to put it better-the defect compensated itself without 
the intervention of my will. That is, I found myself being guilty and at 
the same time wishing to be innocent. Somewhere deep in the 
background I always knew that I was two persons. One was the son 
of my parents, who went to school and was less intelligent, attentive, 
hard-working, decent, and clean than many other boys. The other 
was grown up-old, in fact-skeptical, mistrustful, remote from the 
world of men, but close to nature, the earth, the sun, the moon, the 
weather, a living creatures, and above all close to the night, to 
dreams, and to whatever "God" worked directly in him. I put "God" 



in quotation marks here. For nature seemed, like myself, to have 
been set aside by God as non-divine, although created by Him as 
an expression of Himself. Nothing could persuade me that "in the 
image of God" applied only to man. In fact it seemed to me that the 
high mountains, the rivers, lakes, trees, flowers, and animals far 
better exemplified the essence of God than men with their 
ridiculous clothes, their meanness, vanity, mendacity, and abhorrent 
egotism-all qualities with which I was only too familiar from myself, 
that is, from personality No. 1, the schoolboy of 1890. Besides his 
world there existed another realm, like a temple in which anyone 
who entered was transformed and suddenly overpowered by a 
vision of the whole cosmos, so that he could only marvel and 
admire, forgetful of himself. Here lived the "Other," who knew God 
as a hidden, personal, and at the same time suprapersonal secret. 
Here nothing separated man from God; indeed, it was as though 
the human mind looked down upon Creation simultaneously with 
God. 

What I am here unfolding, sentence by sentence, is something I was 
then not conscious of in any articulate way, though I sensed it with 
an overpowering premonition and intensity of feeling. At such times 
I knew I was worthy of myself, that I was my true self. As soon as I 
was alone, I could pass over into this state. I therefore sought the 
peace and solitude of this "Other," personality No. 2. 

The play and counterplay between personalities No. 1 and No. 2, 
which has run through my whole life, has nothing to do with a "split" 
or dissociation in the ordinary medical sense. On the contrary, it is 
played out in every individual. In my life No. 2 has been of prime 
importance, and I have always tried to make room for anything that 
wanted to come to me from within. He is a typical figure, but he is 
perceived only by the very few. Most people's conscious 
understanding is not sufficient to realize that he is also what they 



Church gradually became a place of torment to me. For there men 
dared to preach aloud-l am tempted to say, shamelessly-about 
God, about His intentions and actions. There people were exhorted 
to have those feelings and to believe that secret which I knew to be 
the deepest, innermost certainty, a certainty not to be betrayed by a 
single word. I could only conclude that apparently no one knew 
about this secret, not even the parson, for otherwise no one would 
have dared to expose the mystery of God in public and to profane 
those inexpressible feelings with stale sentimentalities. Moreover, I 
was certain that this was the wrong way to reach God, for I knew, 
knew from experience, that this grace was accorded only to one 
who fulfilled the will of God without reservation. This was preached 
from the pulpit, too, but always on the assumption that revelation 
had made the will of God plain. To me, on the other hand, it seemed 
the most obscure and unknown thing of all. To me it seemed that 
one's duty was to explore daily the will of God. I did not do that, but I 
felt sure that I would do it as soon as an urgent reason for so doing 
presented itself. Personality No. 1 preoccupied me too much of the 
time. It often seemed to me that religious precepts were being put 
in place of the will of God-which could be so unexpected and so 
alarming-for the sole purpose of sparing people the necessity for 
understanding God's will. I grew more and more skeptical, and my 
father's sermons and those of other parsons became acutely 
embarrassing to me. All the people about me seemed to take the 
jargon for granted, and the dense obscurity that emanated from it; 
thoughtlessly they swallowed all the contradictions, such as that 
God is omniscient and therefore foresaw all human history, and that 
he actually created human beings so that they would have to sin, 
and nevertheless forbids them to sin and even punishes them by 
eternal damnation in hell-fire. 

Fora long time the devil had played no part in my thinking, curiously 



enough. The devil appeared to me no worse than a powerful man's 
vicious watchdog, chained up. Nobody had any responsibility for 
the world except God, and, as I knew only too well, He could be 
terrible. My doubts and uneasiness increased whenever I heard my 
father in his emotional sermons speak of the "good" God, praising 
God's love for man and exhorting man to love God in return. "Does 
he really know what he is talking about?" I wondered. "Could he 
have me, his son, put to the knife as a human sacrifice, like Isaac, 
or deliver him to an unjust court which would have him crucified like 
Jesus? No, he could not do that. Therefore in some cases he could 
not do the will of God, which can be absolutely terrible, as the Bible 
itself shows." It became clear to me that when people are exhorted, 
among other things, to obey God rather than man, this is said just 
casually and thoughtlessly. Obviously we do not know the will of God 
at all, for if we did we would treat this central problem with awe, if 
only out of sheer fear of the overpowering God who can work His 
terrifying will on helpless human beings, as He had done to me. 
Could anyone who pretended to know the will of God have foreseen 
what He had caused me to do? In the New Testament, at any rate, 
there was nothing comparable. The Old Testament, and especially 
the Book of Job, might have opened my eyes in this respect, but at 
that time I was not familiar enough with it. Nor had I heard anything 
of the sort in the instruction for confirmation, which I was then 
receiving. The fear of God, which was of course mentioned, was 
considered antiquated, "Jewish," and long since superseded by the 
Christian message of God's love and goodness. 

The symbolism of my childhood experiences and the violence of the 
imagery upset me terribly. I asked myself: "Who talks like that? Who 
has the impudence to exhibit a phallus so nakedly, and in a shrine? 
Who makes me think that God destroys His Church in this 
abominable manner?" At last I asked myself whether it was not the 
devil's doing. For that it must have been God or the devil who spoke 



and acted in this way was something I never doubted. I felt 
absolutely sure that it was not myself who had invented these 
thoughts and images. These were the crucial experiences of my 
life. It was then that it dawned on me: I must take the responsibility, 
it is up to me how my fate turns out. I had been confronted with a 
problem to which I had to find the answer. And who posed the 
problem? 

Nobody ever answered me that. I knew that I had to find the answer 
out of my deepest self, that I was alone before God, and that God 
alone asked me these terrible things. 

From the beginning I had a sense of destiny, as though my life was 
assigned to me by fate and had to be fulfilled. This gave me an 
inner security, and, though I could never prove it to myself, it proved 
itself to me. I did not have this certainty, it had me. Nobody could 
rob me of the conviction that it was enjoined upon me to do what 
God wanted and not what I wanted. That gave me the strength to go 
my own way. Often I had the feeling that in all decisive matters I was 
no longer among men, but was alone with God. And when I was 
"there," where I was no longer alone, I was outside time; I belonged 
to the centuries; and He who then gave answer was He who had 
always been, who had been before my birth. He who always is was 
there. These talks with the "Other" were my profoundest 
experiences: on the one hand a bloody struggle, on the other 
supreme ecstasy. 

Naturally, I could not talk with anyone about these things. I knew of 
no one to whom I might have communicated them except, possibly, 
my mother. She seemed to think along somewhat similar lines as 
myself. But I soon noticed that in conversation she was not 
adequate for me. Her attitude toward me was above all one of 
admiration, and that was not good for me. And so I remained alone 
with my thoughts. On the whole, I liked that best. I played alone, 



daydreamed or strolled in the woods alone, and had a secret world 
of my own. 

My mother was a very good mother to me. She had a hearty animal 
warmth, cooked wonderfully, and was most companionable and 
pleasant. She was very stout, and a ready listener. She also liked to 
talk, and her chatter was like the gay plashing of a fountain. She 
had a decided literary gift, as well as taste and depth. But this 
quality never properly emerged; it remained hidden beneath the 
semblance of a kindly, fat old woman, extremely hospitable, and 
possessor of a great sense of humor. 

She held all the conventional opinions a person was obliged to 
have, but then her unconscious personality would suddenly put in an 
appearance. That personality was unexpectedly powerful: a 
somber, imposing f gure possessed of unassailable authority and 
no bones about it. I was sure that she consisted of two 
personalities, one innocuous and human, the other uncanny. 

This other emerged only now and then, but each time it was 
unexpected and frightening. She would then speak as if talking to 
herself, but what she said was aimed at me and usually struck to the 
core of my being, so that I was stunned into silence. The first time I 
remember this happening was when I was about six years old. At 
that time we had neighbors who were fairly well off. They had three 
children, the eldest a boy of about my own age, and two younger 
sisters. They were city folk who, especially on Sundays, dressed 
their children in a manner that seemed ridiculous to me-patent- 
leather shoes, white frills, little white gloves. Even on weekdays the 
children were scrubbed and combed. They had fancy manners and 
anxiously kept their distance from the tough, rude boy with tattered 
trousers, holes in his shoes, and dirty hands. My mother annoyed 
me no end with her comparisons and admonishments: 



"Now look at those nice children, so well brought up and polite, but 
you behave like a little lout." Such exhortations humiliated me, and I 
decided to give the boy a hiding-which I did. His mother was 
furious, hastened to mine and made a great to-do over my act of 
violence. My mother was properly horrified and gave me a lecture, 
spiced with tears, longer and more passionate than anything I had 
ever heard from her before. I had not been conscious of any fault; 
on the contrary, I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, for it 
seemed to me that I had somehow made amends for the 
incongruous presence of this stranger in our village. Deeply awed 
by my mother's excitement, I withdrew penitently to my table behind 
our old spinet and began playing with my bricks. For some time 
there was silence in the room. My mother had taken her usual seat 
by the window, and was knitting. Then I heard her muttering to 
herself, and from occasional words that I picked up I gathered that 
she was thinking about the incident, but was now taking another 
view of it. 

Suddenly she said aloud, "Of course one should never have kept a 
litter like that!" I realized at once that she was talking about those 
"dressed-up monkeys." Her favorite brother was a hunter who kept 
dogs and was always talking about dog breeding, mongrels, 
purebreds, and litters. To my relief I realized that she too regarded 
those odious children as inferior whelps, and that her scolding 
therefore need not he taken at face value. 

But I also knew, even at that age, that I must keep perfectly still and 
not come out triumphantly with: "You see, you think as I dol" She 
would have repudiated the idea indignantly: "You horrid boy, how 
dare you pretend such a thing about your mother!" I conclude from 
this that I must already have had earlier experiences of a similar 
nature which I have forgotten. 

I tell this story because at the time of my growing religious 



skepticism there was another instance which threw light on my 
mother's twofold nature. At table one day the talk turned on the 
dullness of the tunes of certain hymns. A possible revision of the 
hymnal was mentioned. At that my mother murmured, "O du Liebe 
meiner Liebe, dn oerwrlnschte " Seligkeit" (O thou love of my love, 
thou accursed bliss). As in the past I pretended that I had not heard 
and was careful not to cry out in glee, in spite of my feeling of 
triumph. 

There was an enormous difference between my mother's two 
personalities. That was why as a child I often had anxiety dreams 
about her. By day she was a loving mother, but at night she seemed 
uncanny. Then she was like one of those seers who is at the same 
time a strange animal, like a priestess in a bear's cave. Archaic 
and ruthless; ruthless as truth and nature. At such moments she was 
the embodiment of what I have called the "natural mind." 

I too have this archaic nature, and in me it is linked with the gift-not 
always pleasant-of seeing people and things as they are. I can let 
myself be deceived from here to Tipperary when I don't want to 
recognize something, and yet at bottom I know quite well how 
matters really stand. In this I am like a dog; he can be tricked, but he 
always smells it out in the end. This "insight" is based on instinct, or 
on a "perticipetion mystique" with others. It is as if the "eyes of the 
background" do the seeing in an impersonal act of perception. 

Slip of the tongue for erwunscht (longed for). 

'The "natural mind" is the "mind which says absolutely straight and 
ruthless things." (Seminar on Interpretation of Visions [Zitrich, 
privately printed, 1940], V, p. iv.) "That is the sort of mind which 
springs from natural sources, and not from opinions taken from 
books; it wells up from the earth like a natural spring, and brings 
with it the peculiar wisdom of nature" (Ibid., VI, p. 34.) 



This was something I did not realize until much later, when some 
very strange things happened to me. For instance, there was the 
time when I recounted the life story of a man without knowing him. It 
was at the wedding of a friend of my wife's; the bride and her family 
were all entirely unknown to me. During the meal I was sitting 
opposite a middle-aged gentleman with a long, handsome beard, 
who had been introduced to me as a barrister. We were having an 
animated conversation about criminal psychology. In order to 
answer a particular question of his, I made up a story to illustrate it, 
embellishing it with all sorts of details. While I was telling my story, I 
noticed that a quite different expression came over the man's face, 
and a silence fell on the table. Very much abashed, I stopped 
speaking. 

Thank heavens we were already at the dessert, so I soon stood up 
and went into the lounge of the hotel. There I withdrew into a corner, 
lit a cigar, and tried to think over the situation. At this moment one of 
the other guests who had been sitting at my table came over and 
asked reproachfully, "How did you ever come to commit such a 
frightful indiscretion?" "Indiscretion?" "Why yes, that story you told." 
"But I made it all up!" 

To my amazement and horror it turned out that I had told the story of 
the man opposite me, exactly and in all its details. I also 
discovered, at this moment, that I could no longer remember a 
single word of the story-even to this day I have been unable to 
recall it. In his Selbstschau, Zschokke describes a similar incident: 
how once, in an inn, he was able to unmask an unknown young man 
as a thief, because he had seen the theft being committed before 
his inner eye. 

In the course of my life it has often happened to me that I suddenly 
knew something which I really could not know at all. The knowledge 



came to me as though it were my own idea. It was the same with my 
mother. She did not know what she was saying; it was like a voice 
wielding absolute authority, which said exactly what fitted the 
situation. 

My mother usually assumed that I was mentally far beyond 

* Johann Heinrich Daniel Zschokke ( 1771-1848 ), Swiss author of historical 
novels and Studies in Swiss and Bavarian history. Cf. Civilization in 
Transition (CW 10, pm. 850). 

my age, and she would talk to me as to a grown-up. It was plain that 
she was telling me everything she could not say to my father, for she 
early made me her confidant and confided her troubles to me. Thus, 
I was about eleven years old when she informed me of a matter that 
concerned my father and alarmed me greatly. I racked my brains, 
and at last came to the conclusion that I must consult a certain 
friend of my father's whom I knew by hearsay to be an influential 
person. Without saying a word to my mother, I went into town one 
afternoon after school and called at this man's house. The maid 
who opened the door told me that he was out. Depressed and 
disappointed, I returned home. But it was by the mercy of 
providence that he was not there. Soon afterward my mother again 
referred to this matter, and this time gave me a very different and 
far milder picture of the situation, so that the whole thing went up in 
smoke. That struck me to the quick, and I thought: "What an ass you 
were to believe it, and you nearly caused a disaster with your stupid 
seriousness? From then on I decided to divide everything my 
mother said by two. My confidence in her was strictly limited, and 
that was what prevented me from ever telling her about my deeper 
preoccupations. 

But then came the moments when her second personality burst 
forth, and what she said on those occasions was so true and to the 



point that I trembled before it. If my mother could then have been 
pinned down, I would have had a wonderful Interlocutor. 

With my father it was quite different. I would have liked to lay my 
religious difficulties before him and ask him for advice, but I did not 
do so because it seemed to me that I knew in advance what he 
would be obliged to reply out of respect for his office. How right I 
was in this assumption was demonstrated to me soon afterward. 
My father personally gave me my instruction for confirmation. It 
bored me to death. One day I was leafing through the catechism, 
hoping to find something besides the sentimental-sounding and 
usually incomprehensible as well as uninteresting expatiations on 
Lord Jesus. I came across the paragraph on the Trinity. Here was 
something that challenged my interest: a oneness which was 
simultaneously a threeness. 

This was a problem that fascinated me because of its inner 
contradiction. I waited longingly for the moment when we would 
reach this question. But when we got that far, my father said, "We 
now come to the Trinity, but we'll skip that, for I really understand 
nothing of it myself." I admired my father's honesty, but on the other 
hand 'I was profoundly disappointed and said to myself, "There we 
have it; they know nothing about it and don't give it a thought. Then 
how can I talk about my secret?" 

I made vain, tentative attempts with certain of my school-fellows 
who struck me as reflective. I awakened no response, but, on the 
contrary, a stupefaction that warned me off. In spite of the boredom, 
I made every effort to believe without understanding-an attitude 
which seemed to correspond with my father's-and prepared myself 
for Communion, on which I had set my last hopes. This was, I 
thought, merely a memorial meal, a kind of anniversary celebration 
for Lord Jesus who had died 1890-30 : 1860 years ago. But still, he 
had let fall certain hints such as, "Take, eat, this is my body," 



meaning that we should eat the Communion bread as if it were his 
body, which after all had originally been flesh. Likewise we were to 
drink the wine which had originally been blood. It was clear to me 
that in this fashion we were to incorporate him into ourselves. This 
seemed to me so preposterous an impossibility that I was sure 
some great mystery must lie behind it, and that I would participate in 
this mystery in the course of Communion, on which my father 
seemed to place so high a value. As was customary, a member of 
the church committee stood godfather to me. He was a nice, 
taciturn old man, a wheelwright in whose workshop I had often 
stood, watching his skill with lathe and adze. Now he came, 
solemnly transformed by frock coat and top hat, and took me to 
church, where my father in his familiar robes stood behind the altar 
and read prayers from the liturgy. On the white cloth covering the 
altar lay large trays filled with small pieces of bread. I could see that 
the bread came from our baker, whose baked goods were 
generally poor and flat in taste. From a pewter jug, wine was poured 
into a pewter cup. My father ate a piece of the bread, took a 
swallow of the wine-l knew the tavern from which it had come-and 
passed the cup to one of the old men. All were stiff, solemn, and it 
seemed to me, uninterested. I looked on in suspense, but could not 
see or guess whether anything unusual was going on inside the old 
men. The atmosphere was the same as that of all other 
performances in church-baptisms, funerals, and so on. I had the 
impression that something was being performed here, in the 
traditionally correct manner. My father, too, seemed to be chiefly 
concerned with going through it all according to rule, and it was part 
of this rule that the appropriate words were read or spoken with 
emphasis. There was no mention of the fact that it was now 1860 
years since Jesus had died, whereas in all other memorial services 
the date was stressed. I saw no sadness and no joy, and felt that 
the feast was meager in every respect, considering the 
extraordinary importance of the person whose memory was being 



celebrated. It did not compare at all with secular festivals. 

Suddenly my turn came. I ate the bread; it tasted flat, as I had 
expected. The wine, of which I took only the smallest sip, was thin 
and rather sour plainly not of the best. Then came the final prayer, 
and the people went out, neither depressed nor illumined with joy, 
but with faces that said, "So that's that." I walked home with my 
father, intensely conscious that I was wearing a new black felt hat 
and a new black suit which was already beginning to turn into a 
frock coat. It was a kind of lengthened jacket that spread out into 
two little wings over the seat, and between these was a slit with a 
pocket into which I could tuck a handkerchief-which seemed to me 
a grown-up, manly gesture. I felt socially elevated and by implication 
accepted into the society of men. That day, too, Sunday dinner was 
an unusually good one. I would be able to stroll about in my new suit 
all day. But otherwise I was empty and did not know what I was 
feeling. 

Only gradually, in the course of the following days, did it dawn on 
me that nothing had happened. I had reached the pinnacle of 
religious initiation, had expected something-l knew not what-to 
happen, and nothing at all had happened. I knew that God could do 
stupendous things to me, things of fire and unearthly light; but this 
ceremony contained no trace of God-not for me, at any rate. To be 
sure, there had been talk about Him, but it had all amounted to no 
more than words. Among the others I had noticed nothing of the 
vast despair, the overpowering elation and outpouring of grace 
which for me constituted the essence of God. I had observed no 
sign of "communion," of "union, becoming one with..." With whom? 
With jesus? Yet he was only a man who had died 1860 years ago. 
Why should a person become one with him? He was called the 
"Son of God"-a demigod, therefore, like the Greek heroes: how 
then could an ordinary person become one with him? This was 
called the "Christian religion," but none of it had anything to do with 



God as I had experienced Him. On the other hand it was quite clear 
that Jesus, the man, did have to do with God; he had despaired in 
Gethsemane and on the cross, after having taught that God was a 
kind and loving father. He too, then, must have seen the tearfulness 
of God. That I could understand, but what was the purpose of this 
wretched memorial service with the flat bread and the sour wine? 
Slowly I came to understand that this communion had been a fatal 
experience for me. It had proved hollow; more than that, it had 
proved to be a total loss. I knew that I would never again be able to 
participate in this ceremony. "Why, that is not religion at all," I 
thought. "It is an absence of God; the church is a place I should not 
go to. It is not life which is there, but death." 

I was seized with the most vehement pity for my father. All at once I 
understood the tragedy of his profession and his life. He was 
struggling with a death whose existence he could not admit. An 
abyss had opened between him and me, and I saw no possibility of 
ever bridging it, for it was infinite in extent. I could not plunge my 
dear and generous father, who in so many matters left me to myself 
and had never tyrannized over me, to that despair and sacrilege 
which were necessary for an experience of divine grace. Only God 
could do that. I had no right to; it would be inhuman. God is not 
human, I thought; that is His greatness, that nothing human 
impinges on Him. He is kind and terrible-both at once-and is 
therefore a great Peril from which everyone naturally tries to save 
himself. People cling one-sidedly to His love and goodness, for fear 
they will fall victim to the tempter and destroyer. Jesus, too, had 
noticed that, and had therefore taught: "Lead us not into 
temptation? My sense of union with the Church and with the human 
world, so far as I knew it, was shattered. I had, so it seemed to me, 
suffered the greatest defeat of my life. The religious outlook which I 
imagined constituted my sole meaningful relation with the universe 
had disintegrated; I could no longer participate in the general faith, 



but found myself involved in something inexpressible, in my secret, 
which I could share with no one. It was terrible and-this was the 
worst of it-vulgar and ridiculous also, a diabolical mockery. 

I began to ponder: What must one think of God? I had not invented 
that thought about God and the cathedral, still less the dream that 
had befallen me at the age of three. A stronger will than mine had 
imposed both on me. Had nature been responsible? But nature 
was nothing other than the will of the Creator. Nor did it help to 
accuse the devil, for he too was a creature of God. God alone was 
real-an annihilating fire and an indescribable grace. 

What about the failure of Communion to affect me? Was that my 
own failure? I had prepared for it in all earnestness, had hoped for 
an experience of grace and illumination, and nothing had 
happened. God had been absent. For God's sake I now found 
myself cut off from the Church and from my father's and everybody 
else's faith. Insofar as they all represented the Christian religion, I 
was an outsider. This knowledge filled me with a sadness which 
was to overshadow all the years until the time I entered the 
university. 

I began looking in my father's relatively modest library— which in 
those days seemed impressive to me-for books that would tell me 
what was known about God. At first I found only the traditional 
conceptions, but not what I was seeking-a writer who thought 
independently. At last I hit upon Biedermann's Christliche 
Dogmotik, published in 1869. Here, apparently, was a man who 
thought for himself, who worked out his own views. I learned from 
him that religion was "a spiritual act consisting in man's 
establishing his own relationship to God." I disagreed with that, for I 
understood religion as something that God did to me; it was an act 
on His part, to which I must simply yield, for He was the stronger. My 
"religion" recognized no human relationship to God, for how could 



anyone relate to something so little known as God? I must know 
more about God in order to establish a relationship to him. In 
Biedermann's chapter on "The Nature of God" I found that God 
showed Himself to be a "personality to be conceived after the 
analogy of the human ego: the unique, utterly supramundane ego 
who embraces the entire cosmos." 

As far as I knew the Bible, this definition seemed to fit. God has a 
personality and is the ego of the universe, just as I myself am the 
ego of my psychic and physical being. But here I encountered a 
formidable obstacle. Personality, after all, surely signifies character. 
Now, character is one thing and not another; that is to say, it 
involves certain specific attributes. But if God is everything, how can 
He still possess a distinguishable character? On the other hand, if 
He does have a character, He can only be the ego of a subjective, 
limited world. Moreover, what kind of character or what kind of 
personality does He have? Everything depends on that, for unless 
one knows the answer one cannot establish a relationship to Him. 

I felt the strongest resistances to imagining God by analogy with my 
own ego. That seemed to me boundlessly arrogant, if not downright 
blasphemous. My ego was, in any case, difficult enough for me to 
grasp. In the first place, I was aware that it consisted of two 
contradictory aspects: No. 1 and No. 2. Second, in both its aspects 
my ego was extremely limited, subject to all possible self- 
deceptions and errors, moods, emotions, passions, and sins. It 
suffered far more defeats than triumphs, was childish, vain, self- 
seeking, defiant, in need of love, covetous, unjust, sensitive, lazy, 
irresponsible, and so on. To my sorrow it lacked many of the virtues 
and talents I admired and envied in others. How could this be the 
analogy according to which we were to imagine the nature of God? 

Eagerly I looked up the other characteristics of God, and found 
them all listed in the way familiar to me from my instruction for 



confirmation. I found that according to Article 172 "the most 
immediate expression of the supramundane nature of God is 1) 
negative: His invisibility to men," etc., "and 2) positive: His dwelling 
in Heaven," etc. This was disastrous, for at once there rushed to my 
mind the blasphemous vision which God directly or indirectly (i.e., 
via the devil) had imposed on my will. 

Article 183 informed me that "God's supramundane nature with 
regard to the moral world" consists in His "justice," which is not 
merely "judicial" but is also "an expression of His holy being." I had 
hoped that this paragraph would say something about God's dark 
aspects which were giving me so much trouble: His vindictiveness, 
His dangerous wrathfulness, His incomprehensible conduct toward 
the creatures His omnipotence had made, whose inadequacies He 
must know by virtue of that same omnipotence, and whom 
moreover it pleased Him to lead astray, or at least to test, even 
though He knew in advance the outcome of His experiments. What, 
indeed, was God's character? What would we say of a human 
personality who behaved in this manner? I did not dare to think this 
question out to its conclusion. And then I read that God, "although 
sufficient unto Himself and needing nothing outside Himself," had 
created the world "out of His satisfaction," and "as a natural world 
has filled it with His goodness and as a moral world desires to fill it 
with His love." 

At first I pondered over the perplexing word "satisfaction." 
Satisfaction with what or with whom? Obviously with the world, for 
He had looked upon His work and called it good. But it was just this 
that I had never understood. Certainly the world is immeasurably 
beautiful, but it is quite as horrible. In a small village in the country, 
where there are few people and nothing much happens, "old age, 
disease, and death" are experienced more intensely, in greater 
detail, and more nakedly than elsewhere. Although I was not yet 
sixteen years old I had seen a great deal of the reality of the life of 



man and beast, and in church and school I had heard enough of the 
sufferings and corruption of the world. God could at most have felt 
"satisfaction" with paradise, but then He Himself had taken good 
care that the glory of paradise should not last too long by planting in 
it that poisonous serpent, the devil. Had He taken satisfaction in 
that too? 

I felt certain that Biedermann did not mean this, but was simply 
babbling on in that mindless way that characterized religious 
instruction, not even aware that he was writing nonsense. As I saw 
it, it was not at all unreasonable to suppose that God, for all that He 
probably did not feel any such cruel satisfaction in the unmerited 
sufferings of man and beast, had nevertheless intended to create a 
world of contradictions in which one creature devoured another and 
life meant simply being born to die. The "wonderful harmonies" of 
natural law looked to me more like a chaos tamed by fearful effort, 
and the "eternal" starry firmament with its predetermined orbits 
seemed plainly an accumulation of random bodies without order or 
meaning. For no one could really see the constellations people 
spoke about. They were mere arbitrary configurations. 

I either did not see or gravely doubted that God filled the natural 
world with His goodness. This, apparently, was another of those 
points which must not be reasoned about but must be believed. In 
fact, if God is the highest good, why is the world, His creation, so 
imperfect, so corrupt, so pitiable? "Obviously it has been infected 
and thrown into confusion by the devil," I thought. But the devil, too, 
was a creature of God. I had to read up on the devil. He seemed to 
be highly important after all. I again opened Biedermann's book on 
Christian dogmatics and looked for the answer to this burning 
question. What were the reasons for suffering, imperfection, and 
evil? I could find nothing. 

That finished it for me. This weighty tome on dogmatics was nothing 



but fancy drivel; worse still, it was a fraud or a specimen of 
uncommon stupidity whose sole aim was to obscure the truth. I was 
disillusioned and even indignant, and once more seized with pity for 
my father, who had fallen victim to this mumbo-jumbo. 

But somewhere and at some time there must have been people 
who sought the truth as I was doing, who thought rationally and did 
not wish to deceive themselves and others and deny the sorrowful 
reality of the world. It was about this time that my mother, or rather, 
her No. 2 personality, suddenly and without preamble said, "You 
must read Goethe's Faust one of these days." We had a handsome 
edition of Goethe, and I picked out Faust. It poured into my soul like 
a miraculous balm. "Here at last," I thought, "is someone who takes 
the devil seriously and even concludes a blood pact with him-with 
the adversary who has the power to frustrate God's plan to make a 
perfect world." I regretted Faust's behavior, for to my mind he 
should not have been so one-sided and so easily tricked. He should 
have been cleverer and also more moral. How childish he was to 
gamble away his soul so frivolously! Faust was plainly a bit of a 
windbag. I had the impression that the weight of the drama and its 
significance lay chiefly on the side of Mephistopheles. It would not 
have grieved me if Faust's soul had gone to hell. He deserved it. I 
did not like the idea of the "cheated devil" at the end, for after all 
Mephistopheles had been anything but a stupid devil, and it was 
contrary to logic for him to be tricked by silly little angels. 
Mephistopheles seemed to me cheated in quite a different sense: 
he had not received his promised rights because Faust, that 
somewhat characterless fellow, had carried his swindle through 
right into the Hereafter. There, admittedly, his puerility came to light, 
but, as I saw it, he did not deserve the initiation into the great 
mysteries. I would have given him a taste of purgatorial fires. The 
real problem, it seemed to me, lay with Mephistopheles, whose 
whole figure made the deepest impression on me, and who, I 



vaguely sensed, had a relationship to the mystery of the Mothers. At 
any rate Mephistopheles and the great initiation at the end 
remained for me a wonderful and mysterious experience on the 
fringes of my conscious world. 

At last I had found confirmation that there were or had been people 
who saw evil and its universal power, and-more important-the 
mysterious role it played in delivering man from darkness and 
suffering. To that extent Goethe became, in my eyes, a prophet. But 
I could not forgive him for having dismissed Mephistopheles by a 
mere trick, by a bit of jiggery-pokery. 

* "Faust, Part Two, trans, by Philip Wayne (Harmondsworth, England, 
Penguin Books Ltd, 1959), pp. 76ff. 60 

For me that was too theological, too frivolous and irresponsible, 
and I was deeply sorry that Goethe too had fallen for those cunning 
devices by which evil is rendered innocuous. In reading the drama I 
had discovered that Faust had been a philosopher of sorts, and 
although he turned away from philosophy, he had obviously learned 
from it a certain receptivity to the truth. Hitherto I had heard virtually 
nothing of philosophy, and now a new hope dawned. Perhaps, I 
thought, there were philosophers who had grappled with these 
questions and could shed light on them for me. 

Since there were no philosophers in my father's library-they were 
suspect because they thought— I had to content myself with Krug's 
General Dictionary of the Philosophical Sciences, second edition, 
1832; I plunged forthwith into the article on God. To my discontent it 
began with the etymology of the word "God," which, it said, 
"incontestably" derived from "good" and signified the ens summum 
or perfectissimum. The existence of God could not be proved, it 
continued, nor the innateness of the idea of God. The latter, 
however, could exist a priori in man, if not in actuality at any rate 



potentially. In any case our "intellectual powers" must "already be 
developed to a certain degree before they are capable of 
engendering so sublime an idea." 

This explanation astounded me beyond measure. What is wrong 
with these "philosophers"? I wondered. Evidently they know of God 
only by hearsay. The theologians are different in this respect, at any 
rate; at least they are sure that God exists, even though they make 
contradictory statements about Him. This lexicographer Krug 
expresses himself in so involved a manner that it is easy to see he 
would like to assert that he is already sufficiently convinced of God's 
existence. Then why doesn't he say so outright? Why does he 
pretend-as if he really thought that we "engender" the idea of God, 
and to do so must first have reached a certain level of 
development? So far as I knew, even the savages wandering naked 
in their jungles had such ideas. And they were certainly not 
"philosophers" who sat down to "engender an idea of God." I never 
engendered any idea of God, either. Of course God cannot be 
proved, for how could, say, a clothes moth that eats Australian wool 
prove to other moths that Australia exists? God's existence does 
not depend on our proofs. How had I arrived at my certainty about 
God? I was told all sorts of things about Him, yet I could believe 
nothing. None of it convinced me. That was not where my idea 
came from. In fact it was not an idea at ail-that is, not something 
thought out. It was not like imagining something and thinking it out 
and afterward believing it. For example, all that about Lord Jesus 
was always suspect to me and I never really believed it, although it 
was impressed upon me far more than God, who was usually only 
hinted at in the background. Why have I come to take God for 
granted? Why do these philosophers pretend that God is an idea, a 
kind of arbitrary assumption which they can engender or not, when it 
is perfectly plain that He exists, as plain as a brick that falls on your 
head? 



Suddenly I understood that God was, for me at least, one of the 
most certain and immediate of experiences. After all, I didn't invent 
that horrible image about the cathedral. On the contrary, it was 
forced on me and I was compelled, with the utmost cruelty, to think 
it, and afterward that inexpressible feeling of grace came to me. I 
had no control over these things. I came to the conclusion that there 
must be something the matter with these philosophers, for they had 
the curious notion that God was a kind of hypothesis that could be 
discussed. I also found it extremely unsatisfying that the 
philosophers offered no opinions or explanations about the dark 
deeds of God. These, it seemed to me, merited special attention 
and consideration from philosophy, since they constituted a 
problem which, I gathered, was rather a hard one for the 
theologians. All the greater was my disappointment to discover that 
the philosophers had apparently never even heard of it. 

I therefore passed on to the next topic that interested me, the article 
on the devil. If I read, we conceived of the devil as originally evil, we 
would become entangled in patent contradictions, that is to say we 
would fall into dualism. Therefore we would do better to assume that 
the devil was originally created a good being but had been 
corrupted by his pride. However; as the author of the article pointed 
out-and I was glad to see this point made-this hypothesis 
presupposed the evil it was attempting to explain-namely, pride. 
For the rest, he continued, the origin of evil was "unexplained and 
inexplicable"-which meant to me: Like the theologians, he does not 
want to think about it. The article on evil and its origin proved 
equally unilluminating. 

The account I have given here summarizes trains of thought and 
developments of ideas which, broken by long, intervals, extended 
over several years. They went on exclusively in my No. 2 
personality, and were strictly private. I used my father's library for 



these researches, secretly and without asking his permission. In the 
intervals, personality No. 1 openly read all the novels of Gerstacker, 
and German translations of the classic English novels. I also began 
reading German literature, concentrating on those classics which 
school, with its needlessly laborious explanations of the obvious, 
had not spoiled for me. I read vastly and planlessly, drama, poetry, 
history, and later natural science. Reading was not only interesting 
but provided a welcome and beneficial distraction from the 
preoccupations of personality No. 2., which in increasing measure 
were leading me to depressions. For everywhere in the realm of 
religious questions I encountered only locked doors, and if ever one 
door should chance to open I was disappointed by what lay behind 
it. Other people all seemed to have totally different concerns. I felt 
completely alone with my certainties. More than ever I wanted 
someone to talk with, but nowhere did I find a point of contact; on 
the contrary, I sensed in others an estrangement, a distrust, an 
apprehension which robbed me of speech. That, too, depressed 
me. I did not know what to make of it. Why has no one had 
experiences similar to mine? I wondered. Why is there nothing 
about it in scholarly books? Am I the only one who has had such 
experiences? Why should I be the only one? It never occurred to me 
that I might be crazy, for the light and darkness of God seemed to 
me facts that could be understood even though they oppressed my 
feelings. 

I felt the singularity into which I was being forced as something 
threatening, for it meant isolation, and that seemed all the more 
unpleasant to me as I was unjustly taken for a scapegoat a good 
deal more often than I liked. Moreover, something had happened in 
school to increase my isolation. In the German class I was rather 
mediocre, for the subject matter, especially German grammar and 
syntax, did not interest me at all. I was lazy and bored. The subjects 
for composition usually seemed to me shallow or silly, and my 



essays turned out accordingly: either careless or labored. I slipped 
through with average marks, and this suited me very well, as it fitted 
in with my general tendency not to be conspicuous. On the whole I 
sympathized with boys from poor families who, like myself, had 
come from nowhere, and I had a liking for those who were none too 
bright, though I tended to become excessively irritated by their 
stupidity and ignorance. For the fact of the matter was that they had 
something to offer which I craved deeply: in their simplicity they 
noticed nothing unusual about me. My "unusualness" was gradually 
beginning to give me the disagreeable, rather uncanny feeling that I 
must possess repulsive traits, of which I was not aware, that caused 
my teachers and schoolmates to shun me. 

In the midst of these preoccupations the following incident burst on 
me like a thunderclap. We had been assigned a subject for 
composition which for once interested me. Consequently I set to 
work with a will and produced what seemed to me a carefully written 
and successful paper. I hoped to receive at least one of the highest 
marks for it— not the highest, of course, for that would have made 
me conspicuous, but one close to the top. Our teacher was in the 
habit of discussing the compositions in order of merit. The first one 
he turned to was by the boy at the head of the class. That was all 
right. Then followed the compositions of the others, and I waited 
and waited in vain for my name. Still it did not come. "It just can't 
be," I thought, "that mine is so bad that it is even below these poor 
ones he has come to. What can be the matter?" Was I simply hors 
concours-which would mean being isolated and attracting attention 
in the most dreadful way of all? 

When all the essays had been read, the teacher paused. Then he 
said, "Now I have one more composition-Jung's. It is by far the 
best, and I ought to have given it first place. But unfortunately it is a 
fraud. Where did you copy it from? Confess the truth!" 



I shot to my feet, as horrified as I was furious, and cried, "I did not 
copy it! I went to a lot of trouble to write a good composition." But 
the teacher shouted at me, "You're lyingl You could never write a 
composition like this. No one is going to believe that. Now-where 
did you copy it from?" 

Vainly I swore to my innocence. The teacher clung to his theory. He 
became threatening. "I can tell you this: if I knew where you had 
copied it from, you would be chucked out of the school." And he 
turned away. My classmates threw odd glances at me, and I 
realized with horror that they were thinking, "A-ha, so that's the way 
it is." My protestations fell on deaf ears. 

I felt that from now on I was branded, and that all the paths which 
might have led me out of unusualness had been cut off. Profoundly 
disheartened and dishonored, I swore vengeance on the teacher, 
and if I had had an opportunity something straight out of the law of 
the jungle would have resulted. How in the world could I possibly 
prove that I had not copied the essay? 

For days I turned this incident over in my thoughts, and again and 
again came to the conclusion that I was powerless, the sport of a 
blind and stupid fate that had marked me as a liar and a cheat. Now 
I realized many things I had not previously understood-for example, 
how it was that one of the teachers could say to my father, who had 
inquired about my conduct in school, "Oh, he's just average, but he 
works commendably hard." I was thought to be relatively stupid and 
superficial. That did not annoy me really. But what made me furious 
was that they should think me capable of cheating, and thus morally 
destroy me. 

My grief and rage threatened to get out of control. And then 
something happened that I had already observed in myself several 
times before: there was a sudden inner silence, as though a 



soundproof door had been closed on a noisy room. It was as if a 
mood of cool curiosity came over me, and I asked myself, "What is 
really going on here? All right, you are excited. Of course the 
teacher is an idiot who doesn't understand your nature-that is, 
doesn't understand it any more than you do. Therefore he is as 
mistrustful as you are. You distrust yourself and others, and that is 
why you side with those who are naive, simple, and easily seen 
through. One gets excited when one doesn't understand things." 

In the light of these considerations 'sine ira et studio', I was struck 
by the analogy with that other train of ideas which had impressed 
itself on me so forcefully when I did not want to think the forbidden 
thought. Although at that time I doubtless saw no difference as yet 
between personalities No. 1 and No. 2, and still claimed the world 
of No. 2 as my own personal world, there was always, deep in the 
background, the feeling that something other than myself was 
involved. It was as though a breath of the great world of stars and 
endless space had touched me, or as if a spirit had invisibly 
entered the room-the spirit of one who had long been dead and yet 
was perpetually present in timelessness until far into the future. 
Denouements of this sort were wreathed with the halo of a numen. 

At that time, of course, I could never have expressed myself in this 
fashion, nor am I now attributing to my state of consciousness 
something that was not there at the time. I am only trying to express 
the feelings I had then, and to shed light on that twilight world with 
the help of what I know now. 

It was some months after the incident just described that my 
schoolmates hung the nickname "Father Abraham" on me. No. 1 
could not understand why, and thought it silly and ridiculous. Yet 
somewhere in the background I felt that the name had hit the mark. 
All allusions to this background were painful to me, for the more I 
read and the more familiar I became with city life, the stronger grew 



my impression that what I was now getting to know as reality 
belonged to an order of things different from the view of the world I 
had grown up with in the country, among rivers and woods, among 
men and animals in a small village bathed in sunlight, with the winds 
and the clouds moving over it, and encompassed by dark night in 
which uncertain things happened. It was no mere locality on the 
map, but "God's world," so ordered by Him and filled with secret 
meaning. But apparently men did not know this, and even the 
animals had somehow lost the senses to perceive it. That was 
evident, for example, in the sorrowful, lost look of the cows, and in 
the resigned eyes of horses, in the devotion of dogs, who clung so 
desperately to human beings, and even in the self-assured step of 
the cats who had chosen house and barn as their residence and 
hunting ground. People were like the animals, and seemed as 
unconscious as they. They looked down upon the ground or up into 
the trees in order to see what could be put to use, and for what 
purpose; like annuals they herded, paired, and fought, but did not 
see that they dwelt in a unified cosmos, in God's world, in an 
eternity where everything is already born and everything has already 
died. 

Because they are so closely akin to us and share our 
unknowing ness, I loved all warm-blooded animals who have souls 
like ourselves and with whom, so I thought, we have an instinctive 
understanding. We experience joy and sorrow, love and hate, 
hunger and thirst, fear and trust in common-all the essential 
features of existence with the exception of speech, sharpened 
consciousness, and science. And although I admired science in the 
conventional way, I also saw it giving rise to alienation and 
aberration from God's world, as leading to a degeneration which 
animals were not capable of. Animals were dear and faithful, 
unchanging and trustworthy. People I now distrusted more than 
ever. 



Insects I did not regard as proper animals, and I took coldblooded 
vertebrates to be a rather lowly intermediate stage on the way down 
to the insects. Creatures in this category were objects for 
observation and collection, curiosities merely, alien and extra- 
human; they were manifestations of impersonal life and more akin 
to plants than to human beings. 

The earthly manifestations of "God's world" began with the realm of 
plants, as a kind of direct communication from it. It was as though 
one were peering over the shoulder of the Creator, who, thinking 
Himself unobserved, was making toys and decorations. Man and 
the proper animals, on the other hand, were bits of God that had 
become independent. That was why they could move about on their 
own and choose their abodes. Plants were bound for good or ill to 
their places. They expressed not only the beauty but also the 
thoughts of God's world, with no intent of their own and without 
deviation. Trees in particular were mysterious and seemed to me 
direct embodiments of the incomprehensible meaning of life. For 
that reason the woods were the place where I felt closest to its 
deepest meaning and to its awe-inspiring workings. 

This impression was reinforced when I became acquainted with 
Gothic cathedrals. But there the infinity of the cosmos, the chaos of 
meaning and meaninglessness, of impersonal purpose and 
mechanical law, were wrapped in stone. This contained and at the 
same time was the bottomless mystery of being, the embodiment of 
spirit. What I dimly felt to be my kinship with stone was the divine 
nature in both, in the dead and the living matter. 

At that time it would, as I have said, have been beyond my powers 
to formulate my feelings and intuition in any graphic way, for they all 
occurred in No. 2 personality, while my active and comprehending 
ego remained passive and was absorbed into the sphere of the 
"old man," who belonged to the centuries. I experienced him and 



his influence in a curiously unreflective manner; when he was 
present, No. 1 personality paled to the point of nonexistence, and 
when the ego that became increasingly identical with No. 1 
personality dominated the scene, the old man, if remembered at all, 
seemed a remote and unreal dream. 

Between my sixteenth and nineteenth years the fog of my dilemma 
slowly lifted, and my depressive states of mind improved. No. 1 
personality emerged more and more distinctly. School and city life 
took up my time, and my increased knowledge gradually 
permeated or repressed the world of intuitive premonitions. I began 
systematically pursuing questions I had consciously framed. I read a 
brief introduction to the history of philosophy and in this way gained 
a bird's-eye view of everything that had been thought in this field. I 
found to my gratification that many of my intuitions had historical 
analogues. Above all I was attracted to the thought of Pythagoras, 
Heraclitus, Empedocles, and Plato, despite the long-windedness of 
Socratic argumentation. Their ideas were beautiful and academic, 
like pictures in a gallery, but somewhat remote. Only in Meister 
Eckhart did I feel the breath of life— not that I understood him. The 
Schoolmen left me cold, and the Aristotelian intellectualism of St. 
Thomas appeared to me more lifeless than a desert. I thought, 
"They all want to force something to come out by tricks of logic, 
something they have not been granted and do not really know 
about. They want to prove a belief to themselves, whereas actually it 
is a matter of experience? They seemed to me like people who 
knew by hearsay that elephants existed, but had never seen one, 
and were now trying to prove by arguments that on logical grounds 
such animals must exist and must be constituted as in fact they are. 
For obvious reasons, the critical philosophy of the eighteenth 
century at first did not appeal to me at all. Of the nineteenth-century 
philosophers, Hegel put me off by his language, as arrogant as it 
was laborious; I regarded him with downright mistrust. He seemed 



to me like a man who was caged in the edifice of his own words 
and was pompously gesticulating in his prison. 

But the great find resulting from my researches was Schopenhauer. 
He was the first to speak of the suffering of the world, which visibly 
and glaringly surrounds us, and of confusion, passion, evil-all those 
things which the others hardly seemed to notice and always tried to 
resolve into all-embracing harmony and comprehensibility. Here at 
last was a philosopher who had the courage to see that all was not 
for the best in the fundaments of the universe. He spoke neither of 
the all-good and all-wise providence of a Creator, nor of the 
harmony of the cosmos, but stated bluntly that a fundamental flaw 
underlay the sorrowful course of human history and the cruelty of 
nature: the blindness of the world-creating Will. This was confirmed 
not only by the early observations I had made of diseased and 
dying f shes, of mangy foxes, frozen or starved birds, of the pitiless 
tragedies concealed in a flowery meadow: earthworms tormented 
to death by ants, insects that tore each other apart piece by piece, 
and so on. My experiences with human beings, too, had taught me 
anything rather than a belief in man's original goodness and 
decency. I knew myself well enough to know that I was only 
gradually, as it were, distinguishing myself from an animal. 

Schopenhauer's somber picture of the world had my undivided 
approval, but not his solution of the problem. I felt sure that by "Will" 
he really meant God, the Creator, and that he was saying that God 
was blind. Since I knew from experience that God was not offended 
by any blasphemy, that on the contrary He could even encourage it 
because He wished to evoke not only man's bright and positive 
side but also his darkness and ungodliness, Schopenhauer's view 
did not distress me. I considered it a verdict justified by the facts. 
But I was all the more disappointed by his theory that the intellect 
need only confront the blind Will with its image in order to cause it to 
reverse itself. How could the Will see this image at all, since it was 



blind? And why should it, even if it could see, thereby be persuaded 
to reverse itself, since the image would show it precisely what it 
willed? And what was the intellect? It was a function of the human 
soul, not a mirror but an infinitesimal fragment of a mirror such as a 
child might hold up to the sun, expecting the sun to be dazzled by it. 
I was puzzled that Schopenhauer should ever have been satisfied 
with such an inadequate answer. 

Because of this I was impelled to study him more thoroughly, and I 
became increasingly impressed by his relation to Kant. I therefore 
began reading the works of this philosopher, above all his Critique 
of Pure Reason, which put me to some hard thinking. My efforts 
were rewarded, for I discovered the fundamental flaw, so I thought, 
in Schopenhauer's system. He had committed the deadly sin of 
hypostatizing a metaphysical assertion, and of endowing a mere 
noumenon, a Ding an sich, with special qualities. I got this from 
Kant's theory of knowledge, and it afforded me an even greater 
illumination, if that were possible, than Schopenhauer's 
"pessimistic" view of the world. 

This philosophical development extended from my seventeenth 
year until well into the period of my medical studies. It brought about 
a revolutionary alteration of my attitude to the world and to life. 
Whereas formerly I had been shy, timid, mistrustful, pallid, thin, and 
apparently unstable in health, I now began to display a tremendous 
appetite on all fronts. I knew what I wanted and went after it. I also 
became noticeably more accessible and more communicative. I 
discovered that poverty was no handicap and was far from being 
the principal reason for suffering; that the sons of the rich really did 
not enjoy any advantages over the poor and ill-clad boys. There 
were far deeper reasons for happiness and unhappiness than one's 
allotment of pocket money. I made more and better friends than 
before. I felt firmer ground under my feet and even summoned up 



courage to speak openly of my ideas. But that, as I discovered all 
too soon, was a misunderstanding which I had cause to regret. For I 
met not only with embarrassment or mockery, but with hostile 
rejection. To my consternation and discomf ture, I found that certain 
people considered me a braggart, a poseur, and a humbug. The 
old charge of cheat was revived, even though in a somewhat milder 
form. Once again it had to do with a subject for composition that 
had aroused my interest. I had worked out my paper with particular 
care, taking the greatest pains to polish my style. The result was 
crushing. "Here is an essay by Jung," said the teacher. "It is 
downright brilliant, but tossed off so carelessly that it is easy to see 
how little serious effort went into it. I can tell you this, Jung, you won't 
get through life with that slapdash attitude. Life calls for earnestness 
and conscientiousness, work and effort. Look at D.'s paper. He has 
none of your brilliance, but he is honest, conscientious, and hard- 
working. That is the way to success in life." 

My feelings were not as hurt as on the first occasion, for in spite of 
himself the teacher had been impressed by my essay, and had at 
least not accused me of stealing it. I protested against his 
reproaches, but was dismissed with the comment: "The Ars 
Poetico maintains that the best poem is the one which conceals the 
effort of creation. But you cannot make me believe that about your 
essay, for it was tossed off frivolously and without any effort." There 
were, I knew, a few good ideas in it, but the teacher did not even 
bother to discuss them. 

I felt some bitterness over this incident, but the suspicions of my 
schoohnates were a far more serious matter, for they threatened to 
throw me back into my former isolation and depression. I racked my 
brains, trying to understand what I could have done to deserve their 
slanders. By cautious inquiries I discovered that they looked 
askance at me because I often made remarks, or dropped hints, 
about things which I could not possibly know. For instance, I 



pretended to know something about Kant and Schopenhauer, or 
about paleontology, which we had not even had in school as yet. 
These astonishing discoveries showed me that practically all the 
burning questions had nothing to do with everyday life, but 
belonged, like my ultimate secret, to "God's world," which it was 
better not to speak of. 

Henceforth I took care not to mention these esoteric matters among 
my schoolmates, and among the adults of my acquaintance I knew 
no one with whom I might have talked without risk of being thought a 
boaster and impostor. The most painful thing of all was the 
frustration of my attempts to overcome the inner split in myself, my 
division into two worlds. Again and again events occurred which 
forced me out of my ordinary, everyday existence into the 
boundlessness of "God's world." 

This expression, "God's world," may sound sentimental to some 
ears. For me it did not have this character at all. To "God's world" 
belonged everything superhuman-dazzling light, the darkness of 
the abyss, the cold impassivity of infinite space and time, and the 
uncanny grotesqueness of the irrational world of chance. "God," for 
me, was everything-and anything but "edifying." 

The older I grew, the more frequently I was asked by my parents 
and others what I wanted to be. I had no clear notions on that score. 
My interests drew me in different directions. On the one hand I was 
powerfully attracted by science, with its truths based on facts; on the 
other hand I was fascinated by everything to do with comparative 
religion. In the sciences I was drawn principally to zoology, 
paleontology, and geology; in the humanities to Greco-Roman, 
Egyptian, and prehistoric archaeology. At that time, of course, I did 
not realize how very much this choice of the most varied subjects 
corresponded to the nature of my inner dichotomy. What appealed 
to me in science were the concrete facts and their historical 



background, and in comparative religion the spiritual problems, into 
which philosophy also entered. In science I missed the factor of 
meaning; and in religion, that of empiricism. Science met, to a very 
large extent, the needs of No. 1 personality, whereas the humane or 
historical studies provided beneficial instruction for No. 2. 

Torn between these two poles, I was for a long time unable to settle 
on anything. I noticed that my uncle, the head of my mother's family, 
who was pastor of St. Alban's in Basel, was gently pushing me in 
the direction of theology. The unusual attentiveness with which I had 
followed a conversation at table, when he was discussing a point of 
religion with one of his sons, all of whom were theologians, had not 
escaped him. I wondered whether there might possibly be 
theologians who were in close touch with the dizzy heights of the 
university and therefore knew more than my father. Such 
conversations never gave me the impression that they were 
concerned with real experiences, and certainly not with experiences 
like mine. They dealt exclusively with doctrinal opinions on the 
Biblical narratives, all of which made me feel distinctly 
uncomfortable, because of the numerous and barely credible 
accounts of miracles. 

While I was attending the Gymnasium I was allowed to lunch at this 
uncle's house every Thursday. I was grateful to him not only for the 
lunch but for the unique opportunity of occasionally hearing at his 
table an adult, intelligent, and intellectual conversation. It was a 
marvelous experience for me to discover that anything of this sort 
existed at all, for in my home surroundings I had never heard 
anyone discussing learned topics. I did sometimes attempt to talk 
seriously with my father, but encountered an impatience and 
anxious defensiveness which puzzled me. Not until several years 
later did I come to understand that my poor father did not dare to 
think, because he was consumed by inward doubts. He was taking 
refuge from himself and therefore insisted on blind faith. He could 



not receive it as a grace because he wanted to "win it by struggle," 
forcing it to come with convulsive efforts. 

My uncle and my cousins could calmly discuss the dogmas and 
doctrines of the Church Fathers and the opinions of modem 
theologians. They seemed safely ensconced in a self-evident world 
order, in which the name of Nietzsche did not occur at all and Jakob 
Burckhardt was paid only a grudging compliment. Burckhardt was 
"liberal," "rather too much of a freethinker"; I gathered that he stood 
somewhat askew in the eternal order of things. My uncle, I knew, 
never suspected how remote I was from theology, and I was deeply 
sorry to have to disappoint him. I would never have dared to lay my 
problems before him, since I knew only too well how disastrously 
this would turn out for me. I had nothing to say in my defense. On the 
contrary, No. 1 personality was fast taking the lead, and my 
scientific knowledge, though still meager, was thoroughly saturated 
with the scientific materialism of the time. It was only painfully held in 
check by the evidence of history and by Kant's Critique of Pure 
Reason, which apparently nobody in my environment understood. 
For although Kant was mentioned by my theologian uncle and 
cousins in tones of praise, his principles were used only to discredit 
opposing views but were never applied to their own. About this, too, 
I said nothing. 

Consequently, I began to feel more and more uncomfortable when I 
sat down to table with my uncle and his family. Given my habitually 
guilty conscience, these Thursdays became black days for me. In 
this world of social and spiritual security and ease I felt less and 
less at home, although I thirsted for the drops of intellectual 
stimulation which occasionally trickled forth. I felt dishonest and 
ashamed. I had to admit to myself: "Yes, you are a cheat; you lie 
and deceive people who mean well by you. It's not their fault that 
they live in a world of social and intellectual certitudes, that they 
know nothing of poverty, that their religion is also their paid 



profession, that they are totally unconscious of the fact that God 
Himself can wrench a person out of his orderly spiritual world and 
condemn him to blaspheme. I have no way of explaining this to 
them. I must take the odium on myself and learn to bear it." 
Unfortunately, I had so far been singularly unsuccessful in this 
endeavor. 

As the tensions of this moral conflict increased, No. 2 personality 
became more and more doubtful and distasteful to me, and I could 
no longer hide this fact from myself. I tried to extinguish No. 2, but 
could not succeed in that either. At school and in the presence of 
my friends I could forget him, and he also disappeared when I was 
studying science. But as soon as I was by myself, at home or out in 
the country, Schopenhauer and Kant returned in full force, and with 
them the grandeur of "God's world." My scientific knowledge also 
formed a part of it, and filled the great canvas with vivid colors and 
figures. Then No. 1 and his worries about the choice of a profession 
sank below the horizon, a tiny episode in the last decade of the 
nineteenth century. But when I returned from my expedition into the 
centuries, I brought with me a kind of hangover. I, or rather No. 1, 
lived in the here and now, and sooner or later would have to form a 
definite idea of what profession he wished to pursue. 

Several times my father had a serious talk with me. I was free to 
study anything I liked, he said, but if I wanted his advice I should 
keep away from theology. "Be anything you like except a 
theologian," he said emphatically. By this time there was a tacit 
agreement between us that certain things could be said or done 
without comment. He had never taken me to task for cutting church 
as often as possible and for not going to communion any more. The 
farther away I was from church, the better I felt. The only things I 
missed were the organ and the choral music, but certainly not the 
"religious community? The phrase meant nothing to me at all, for 



the habitual churchgoers struck me as being far less of a 
community than the "worldly" folk. The latter may have been less 
virtuous, but on the other hand they were much nicer people, with 
natural emotions, more sociable and cheerful, warmer-hearted and 
more sincere. 

I was able to reassure my father that I had not the slightest desire to 
be a theologian. But I continued to waver between science and the 
humanities. Both powerfully attracted me. I was beginning to realize 
that No. 2 had no pied-a-terre. In him I was lifted beyond the here 
and now; in him I felt myself a single eye in a thousand-eyed 
universe, but incapable of moving so much as a pebble upon the 
earth. No. 1 rebelled against this passivity; he wanted to be up and 
doing, but for the present he was caught in an insoluble conflict. 
Obviously I had to wait and see what would happen. If anyone 
asked me what I wanted to be I was in the habit of replying: a 
philologist, by which I secretly meant Assyrian and Egyptian 
archaeology. In reality, however, I continued to study science and 
philosophy in my leisure hours, and particularly during the holidays, 
which I spent at home with my mother and sister. The days were 
long past when I ran to my mother, lamenting, "I'm bored, I don't 
know what to do." Holidays were now the best time of the year, 
when I could amuse myself alone. Moreover, during the summer 
vacations at least, my father was away, as he used regularly to 
spend his holidays in Sachseln. 

Only once did it happen that I too went on a vacation trip. I was 
fourteen when, on our doctor's orders, I was sent to Entlebuch for a 
cure, in the hope that my fitful appetite and my then unstable health 
would be improved. For the first time I was alone among adult 
strangers. I was quartered in the Catholic priest's house. For me 
this was an eerie and at the same time fascinating adventure. I 
seldom got a glimpse of the priest himself, and his housekeeper 
was scarcely an alarming person, though prone to be curt. Nothing 



in the least menacing happened to me. I was under the supervision 
of an old country doctor who ran a kind of hotel-sanatorium for 
convalescents of all types. It was a very mixed group: farm people, 
minor officials, merchants, and a few cultivated people from Basel, 
among them a chemist who had attained that pinnacle of glory, the 
doctorate. My father, too, was a Ph.D., but he was merely a 
philologist and linguist. This chemist was a fascinating novelty to 
me: here was a scientist, perhaps one of those who understood the 
secrets of stones. He was still a young man and taught me to play 
croquet, but he imparted to me none of his presumably vast 
learning. And I was too shy, too awkward, and far too ignorant to 
ask him. I revered him as the first person I had ever met in the flesh 
who was initiated into the secrets of nature, or some of them, at 
least. He sat at the same table with me, ate the same food as I did, 
and occasionally even exchanged a few words with me. I felt 
transported into the sublimer sphere of adulthood. This elevation in 
my status was confirmed when I was permitted to go on the outings 
arranged for the boarders. On one of these occasions we visited a 
distillery, and were invited to sample the wares. In literal fulfillment of 
the verse: 

But now there comes a kicker, 
This stuff, you see, is liquor [6] 

6 Wilhelm Busch, Die lobsiade. 

I found the various little glasses so inspiring that I was wafted into 
an entirely new and unexpected state of consciousness. There was 
no longer any inside or outside, no longer an "I" and the "others," 
No. 1 and No. 2 were no more; caution and timidity were gone, and 
the earth and sky, the universe and everything in it that creeps and 
flies, revolves, rises, or falls, had all become one. I was shamefully, 
gloriously, triumphantly drunk. It was as if I were drowned in a sea of 
blissful musings, but, because of the violent heaving of the waves, 



had to cling with eyes, hands, and feet to all solid objects in order to 
keep my balance on the swaying streets and between the rocking 
houses and trees. "Marvelous," I thought, "only unfortunately just a 
little too much." The experience came to a rather woeful end, but it 
nevertheless remained a discovery, a premonition of beauty and 
meaning which I had spoiled only by my stupidity. 

At the end of my stay my father came to fetch me, and we traveled 
together to Lucerne, where-what happinessl-we went aboard a 
steamship. I had never seen anything like it. I could not see enough 
of the action of the steam engine, and then suddenly I was told we 
had arrived in Vitznau. Above the village towered a high mountain, 
and my father now explained to me that this was the Rigi, and that a 
cogwheel railway ran up it. We went to a small station building, and 
there stood the strangest locomotive in the world, with the boiler 
upright but tilted at a queer angle. Even the seats in the carriage 
were tilted. My father pressed a ticket into my hand and said, "You 
can ride up to the peak alone. I'll stay here, it's too expensive for the 
two of us. Be careful not to fall down anywhere." 

I was speechless with joy. Here I was at the foot of this mighty 
mountain, higher than any I had ever seen, and quite close to the 
fiery peaks of my faraway childhood. I was, indeed, almost a man 
by now. For this trip I had bought myself a bamboo cane and an 
English jockey cap-the proper articles of dress for a World traveler. 
And now I was to ascend this enormous mountain! I no longer knew 
which was bigger, I or the mountain. With a tremendous puffing, the 
wonderful locomotive shook and rattled me up to the dizzy heights 
where ever-new abysses and Panoramas opened out before my 
gaze, until at last I stood on the peak in the strange thin air, looking 
into unimaginable distances. "Yes," I thought, "this is it, my world, 
the real world, the secret, where there are no teachers, no schools, 
no unanswerable questions, where one can be without having to 
ask anything." I kept carefully to the paths, for there were 



tremendous precipices all around. It was all very solemn, and I felt 
one had to be polite and silent up here, for one was in God's world. 
Here it was physically present. This was the best and most precious 
gift my father had ever given me. 

So profound was the impression this made upon me that my 
memories of everything that happened afterward in "God's world" 
were completely blotted out. But No. 1 also came into his own on 
this trip, and his impressions remained with me for the rest of my 
life. I still see myself, grown up and independent, wearing a stiff 
black hat and with an expensive cane, sitting on the terrace of one 
of the overwhelmingly elegant palatial hotels beside Lake Lucerne, 
or in the beautiful gardens of Vitznau, having my morning coffee at a 
small, white-covered table under a striped awning spangled with 
sunlight, eating croissants with golden butter and various kinds of 
jam, and considering plans for outings that would fill the whole long 
summer day. After the coffee I would stroll calmly, without 
excitement and at a deliberate pace, to a steamship, which would 
carry me toward the Gotthard and the foot of those giant mountains 
whose tops were covered with gleaming glaciers. 

For many decades this image rose up whenever I was wearied 
from overwork and sought a point of rest. In real life I have promised 
myself this splendor again and again, but I have never kept my 
promise. 

This, my first conscious journey, was followed by a second a year or 
two later. I had been allowed to visit my father, who was on holiday 
in Sachseln. From him I learned the impressive news that he had 
become friendly with the Catholic priest there. This seemed to me 
an act of extraordinary boldness, and secretly I admired my father's 
courage. While there, I paid a visit to the hermitage of Flueli and the 
relics of Brother Klaus, who by then had been beatified. I wondered 
how the Catholics knew that he was in a beatific state. Perhaps he 



was still wandering about and had told people so? I was powerfully 
impressed by the genius loci, and was able not only to imagine the 
possibility of a life so entirely dedicated to God but even to 
understand it. But I did so with an inward shudder and a question to 
which I knew no answer: How could his wife and children have 
borne having a saint for a husband and father, when it was precisely 
my father's faults and inadequacies that made him particularly 
lovable to me? "Yes," I thought, "how could anyone live with a 
saint?" Obviously he saw that it was impossible, and therefore he 
had to become a hermit. Still, it was not so very far from his cell to 
his house. This wasn't a bad idea, I thought, to have the family in 
one house, while I would live some distance away, in a hut with a 
pile of books and a writing table, and an open fire where I would 
roast chestnuts and cook my soup on a tripod. As a holy hermit I 
wouldn't have to go to church any more, but would have my own 
private chapel instead. 

From the hermitage I strolled on up the hill, lost in my thoughts, and 
was just turning to descend when from the left the slender figure of a 
young girl appeared. She wore the local costume, had a pretty face, 
and greeted me with friendly blue eyes. As though it were the most 
natural thing, in the world we descended into the valley together. 
She was about my own age. Since I knew no other girls except my 
cousins, I felt rather embarrassed and did not know how to talk to 
her. So I began hesitantly explaining that I was here for a couple of 
days on holiday, that I was at the Gymnasium in Basel and later 
wanted to study at the university. While I was talking, a strange 
feeling of fatefulness crept over me. "She has appeared just at this 
moment," I thought to myself, "and she walks along with me as 
naturally as if we belonged together? I glanced sideways at her and 
saw an expression of mingled shyness and admiration in her face, 
which embarrassed me and somehow pierced me. Can it be 
possible, I wondered, that this is fate? Is my meeting her mere 



chance? A peasant girl-could it possibly be? She is a Catholic, but 
perhaps her priest is the very one with whom my father has made 
friends? She has no idea who I am. I certainly couldn't talk to her 
about Schopenhauer and the negation of the Will, could I? Yet she 
doesn't seem in any way sinister. Perhaps her Priest is not one of 
those Jesuits skulking about in black robes. 

But I cannot tell her, either, that my father is a Protestant clergyman. 
That might frighten or offend her. And to talk about philosophy, or 
about the devil, who is more important than Faust even though 
Goethe made such a simpleton of him-that is quite out of the 
question. She still dwells in the distant land of innocence, but I have 
plunged into reality, into the splendor and cruelty of creation. How 
can she endure to hear about that? An impenetrable wall stands 
between us. There is not and cannot be any relationship. 

Sad at heart, I retreated into myself and turned the conversation to 
less dangerous topics. Was she going to Sachseln, wasn't the 
weather lovely, and what a view, and so on. Outwardly this 
encounter was completely meaningless. But, seen from within, it 
was so weighty that it not only occupied my thoughts for days but 
has remained forever in my memory, like a shrine by the wayside. 
At that time I was still in that childlike state where life consists of 
single, unrelated experiences. For who could discover the threads 
of fate which led from Brother Klaus to the pretty girl? 

This period of my life was filled with conflicting thoughts. 
Schopenhauer and Christianity would not square with one another, 
for one thing; and for another, No. 1 wanted to free himself from the 
pressure or melancholy of No. 2. It was not No. 2 who was 
depressed, but No. 1 when he remembered No. 2. It was just at this 
time that, out of the clash of opposites, the first systematic fantasy 
of my life was born. It made its appearance piece by piece, and it 
had its origin, so far as I can remember, in an experience which 



stirred me profoundly. 

One day a 'northwest wind was lashing the Rhine into foaming 
waves. My way to school led along the river. Suddenly I saw 
approaching from the north a ship with a great mainsail running up 
the Rhine before the storm. Here was something completely new in 
my experience-a sailing vessel on the Rhine! My imagination took 
wings. If, instead of this swiftly flowing river, all of Alsace were a 
lake, we would have sailing boats and great steamers. Then Basel 
would be a port; it would be almost as good as living by the sea. 
Then everything would be different, and we would live in another 
time and another world. There would be no Gymnasium, no long 
walk to school, and I would be grown up and able to arrange my life 
as I wished. There would be a hill of rock rising out of the lake, 
connected by a narrow isthmus to the mainland, cut through by a 
broad canal with a wooden bridge over it, leading to a gate flanked 
by towers and opening into a little medieval city built on the 
surrounding slopes. On the rock stood a well-fortified castle with a 
tall keep, a watchtower. This was my house. In it there were no fine 
halls or any signs of magnificence. The rooms were simple, 
paneled, and rather small. There was an uncommonly attractive 
library where you could find everything worth knowing. There was 
also a collection of weapons, and the bastions were mounted with 
heavy cannon. Besides that, there was a garrison of fifty men-at- 
arms in the castle. The little town had several hundred inhabitants 
and was governed by a mayor and a town council of old men. I 
myself was justice of the peace, arbitrator, and adviser, who 
appeared only now and then to hold court. On the landward side the 
town had a port in which lay my two masted schooner, armed with 
several small cannon. 

The nerve center and raison d'etre of this whole arrangement was 
the secret of the keep, which I alone knew. The thought had come to 
me like a shock. For, inside the tower, extending from the 



battlements to the vaulted cellar, was a copper column or heavy 
wire cable as thick as a man's arm, which ramified at the top into 
the finest branches, like the crown of a tree or-better still-like a 
taproot with all its tiny rootlets turned upside down and reaching into 
the air. From the air they drew a certain inconceivable something 
which was conducted down the copper column into the cellar. Here I 
had an equally inconceivable apparatus, a kind of laboratory in 
which I made gold out of the mysterious substance which the 
copper roots drew from the air. This was really an arcanum, of 
whose nature I neither had nor wished to form any conception. Nor 
did my Imagination concern itself with the nature of the 
transformation process. Tactfully and with a certain nervousness it 
skirted around what actually went on in this laboratory. There was a 
kind of inner prohibition: one was not supposed to look into it too 
closely, nor ask what kind of substance was extracted from the air. 
As Goethe says of the Mothers, "Even to speak of them dismays 
the bold." 

"Spirit," of course, meant for me something ineffable, but at bottom I 
did not regard it as essentially different from very rarefied air. What 
the roots absorbed and transmitted to the copper trunk was a kind 
of spiritual essence which became visible down in the cellar as 
finished gold coins. This was certainly no mere conjuring trick, but a 
venerable and vitally important secret of nature which had come to 
me I know not how and which I had to conceal not only from the 
council of elders but, in a sense, also from myself. 

My long, boring walk to and from school began to shorten most 
delightfully. Scarcely was I out of the schoolhouse than I was already 
in the castle, where structural alterations were in progress, council 
sessions were being held, evildoers sentenced, disputes 
arbitrated, cannon fired. The schooner's decks were cleared, the 
sails rigged, and the vessel steered carefully out of the harbor 



before a gentle breeze, and then, as it emerged from behind the 
rock, tacked into a stiff nor'wester. Suddenly I found myself on my 
doorstep, as though only a few minutes had passed. I stepped out 
of my fantasy as out of a carriage which had effortlessly driven me 
home. This highly enjoyable occupation lasted for several months 
before I got sick of it. Then I found the fantasy silly and ridiculous. 
Instead of daydreaming I began building castles and artfully fortified 
emplacements out of small stones, using mud as mortar-the 
fortress of Huningen, which at that time was still intact, serving me 
as a model. I studied all the available fortification plans of Vauban, 
and was soon familiar with all the technicalities. From Vauban I 
turned to modern methods of fortification, and tried with my limited 
means to build models of all the different types. This preoccupied 
me in my leisure hours for more than two years, during which time 
my leanings toward nature study and concrete things steadily 
increased, at the cost of No. 2. 

As long as I knew so little about real things, there was no point, I 
thought, in thinking about them. Anyone could have fantasies, but 
real knowledge was another matter. My parents 

7 Faust, Part Two, p. 76. 1 

allowed me to take out a subscription for a scientific periodical, 
which I read with passionate interest. I hunted and collected all the 
fossils to be found in our Jura mountains, and all the obtainable 
minerals, also insects and the bones of mammoths and men- 
mammoth bones from gravel pits in the Rhineland plain, human 
bones from a mass grave near Huningen, dating from 1811. Plants 
interested me too, but not in a scientific sense. I was attracted to 
them for a reason I could not understand, and with a strong feeling 
that they ought not to be pulled up and dried. They were living 
beings which had meaning only so long as they were growing and 
flowering-a hidden, secret meaning, one of God's thoughts. They 



were to be regarded with awe and contemplated with philosophical 
wonderment. What the biologist had to say about them was 
interesting, but it was not the essential thing. Yet I could not explain 
to myself what this essential thing was. How were plants related to 
the Christian religion or to the negation of the Will, for example? 
This was something I could not fathom. They obviously partook of 
the divine state of innocence which it was better not to disturb. By 
way of contrast, insects were denatured plants-flowers and fruits 
which had presumed to crawl about on legs or stilts and to fly 
around with wings like the petals of blossoms, and busied 
themselves preying on plants. Because of this unlawful activity they 
were condemned to mass executions, June bugs and caterpillars 
being the especial targets of such punitive expeditions. My 
"sympathy with all creatures was strictly limited to warm-blooded 
animals. The only exceptions among the cold-blooded vertebrates 
were frogs and toads, because of their resemblance to human 
beings. 



Student Years 



IN spite of my growing scientific interests, I turned back from time to 
time to my philosophical books. The question of my choice of a 
profession was drawing alarmingly close. I looked forward with 
longing to the end of my school days. Then ' I would go to the 
university and study-natural science, of course. Then I would know 
something real. But no sooner had I made myself this premise than 
my doubts began. Was not my bent rather toward history and 
philosophy? Then again, I was intensely interested in everything 
Egyptian and Babylonian, and would have liked best to be an 
archaeologist. But I had no money to study anywhere except in 
Basel, and in Basel there was no teacher for this subject. So this 
plan very soon came to an end . For a long ti me I could not make up 
my mind and constantly postponed the decision. My father was very 
worried. He said once, "The boy is interested in everything 
imaginable, but he does not know what he wants." I could only admit 
that he was right. As matriculation approached and we had to 
decide what faculty to register for, I abruptly decided on science, 
but I left my schoolfellows in doubt as to whether I intended to go in 
definitely for science or the humanities. 

This apparently sudden decision had a background of its own. 
Some weeks previously, just at the time when No. 1 and No. 2. 
were wrestling for a decision, I had two dreams. In the first dream I 
was in a dark wood that stretched along the Rhine. I came to a little 
hill, a burial mound, and began to dig. After a while I turned up, to 
my astonishment, some bones of prehistoric animals. This 



interested me enormously, and at that moment I knew: I must get to 
know nature, the world in which we live, and the things around us. 

Then came a second dream. Again I was in a wood; it was 
threaded with watercourses, and in the darkest place I saw a 
circular pool, surrounded by dense undergrowth. Half immersed in 
the water lay the strangest and most wonderful creature: a round 
animal, shimmering in opalescent hues, and consisting of 
innumerable little cells, or of organs shaped like tentacles. It was a 
giant radiolarian, measuring about three feet across. It seemed to 
me indescribably wonderful that this magnificent creature should be 
lying there undisturbed, in the hidden place, in the clear, deep 
water. It aroused in me an intense desire for knowledge, so that I 
awoke with a beating heart. These two dreams decided me 
overwhelmingly in favor of science, and removed all my doubts. 

It became clear to me that I was living in a time and a place where a 
person had to earn his living. To do so, one had to be this or that, 
and it made a deep impression on me that all my schoolfellows 
were imbued with this necessity and thought about nothing else. I 
felt I was in some way odd. Why could I not make up my mind and 
commit myself to something definite? Even that plodding fellow D. 
who had been held up to me by my German teacher as a model of 
diligence and conscientiousness was certain that he would study 
theology. I saw that I would have to settle down and think the matter 
through. If I took up zoology, for instance, I could be only a 
schoolmaster, or at best an employee in a zoological garden. There 
was no future in that, even if one's demands were modest-though I 
would certainly have preferred working in a zoo to the life of a 
school-teacher. 

In this blind alley the inspiration suddenly came to me that I could 
study medicine. Strangely enough, this had never occurred to me 
before, although my paternal grandfather, of whom I had heard so 



much, had been a doctor. Indeed, for that very reason I had a 
certain resistance to this profession. "Only don't imitate," was my 
motto. But now I told myself that the study of medicine at least 
began with scientific subjects. To that extent I would be doing what I 
wanted. Moreover, the field of medicine was so broad that there 
was always the possibility of specializing later. I had definitely opted 
for science, and the only question was: How? I had to earn my 
living, and as I had no money I could not attend a university abroad 
and obtain the kind of training that would give me hopes of a 
scientific career. At best I could become only a dilettante in 
science. Nor, since I possessed a personality that made me 
disliked by many of my schoolfellows and of the people who 
counted (i.e., the teachers), was there any hope of finding a patron 
who would support my wish. When, therefore, I finally decided on 
medicine, it was with the rather disagreeable feeling that it was not 
a good thing to start life with such a compromise. Nevertheless, I 
felt considerably relieved now that this irrevocable decision had 
been made. 

The painful question then presented itself: Where was the money to 
come from? My father could raise only part of it. He applied to the 
University of Basel for a stipend for me, and to my shame it was 
granted. I was ashamed, not so much because our poverty was laid 
bare for all the world to see, but because I had secretly been 
convinced that all the "top" people, the people who "counted," were 
ill disposed toward me. I had never expected any such kindness 
from them. I had obviously profited by the reputation of my father, 
who was a good and uncomplicated person. Yet I felt myself totally 
different from him. I had, infact, two different conceptions of myself. 
Through No. 1's eyes I saw myself as a rather disagreeable and 
moderately gifted young man with vaulting ambitions, an 
undisciplined temperament, and dubious manners, alternating 
between naive enthusiasm and fits of childish disappointment, in 



his innnermost essence a hermit and obscurantist. On the other 
hand, No. 2 regarded No. 1 as a diflicult and thankless moral task, 
a lesson that had to be got through somehow, complicated by a 
variety of faults such as spells of laziness, despondency, 
depression, inept enthusiasm for ideas and things that nobody 
valued, liable to imaginary friendships, limited, prejudiced, stupid 
(mathematics!), with a lack of understanding for other people, 
vague and confused in philosophical matters, neither an honest 
Christian nor anything else. No. 2 had no definable character at all; 
he was a vita peracta, born, living, dead, everything in one; a total 
vision of life. Though pitilessly clear about himself, he was unable to 
express himself through the dense, dark medium of No. 1, though 
he longed to do so. When No. 2 predominated, No. 1 was 
contained and obliterated in him, just as, conversely, No. 1 
regarded No. 2 as a region of inner darkness. No. 2 felt that any 
conceivable expression of himself would be like a stone thrown 
over the edge of the world, dropping soundlessly into infinite night. 
But in him (No. 2) light reigned, as in the spacious halls of a royal 
palace whose high easements open upon a landscape flooded with 
sunlight. Here were meaning and historical continuity, in strong 
contrast to the incoherent fortuitousness of No. 1's life, which had no 
real points of contact with its environment. No. 2, on the other hand, 
felt himself in secret accord with the Middle Ages, as personified by 
Faust, with the legacy of a past which had obviously stirred Goethe 
to the depths. For Goethe too, therefore-and this was my great 
consolation-No. 2 was a reality. Faust, as I now realized with 
something of a shock, meant more to me than my beloved Gospel 
according to St. John. There was something in Faust that worked 
directly on my feelings. John's Christ was strange to me, but still 
stranger was the Savior of the other gospels. Faust, on the other 
hand, was the living equivalent of No. 2, and I was convinced that he 
was the answer which Goethe had given to his times. This insight 
was not only comforting to, me, it also gave me an increased 



feeling of inner security and a sense of belonging to the human 
community. I was no longer isolated and a mere curiosity, a sport of 
cruel nature. My godfather and authority was the great Goethe 
himself. 

About this time I had a dream which both frightened and 
encouraged me. It was night in some unknown place, and I was 
making slow and painful headway against a mighty wind. Dense fog 
was flying along everywhere. I had my hands cupped around a tiny 
light which threatened to go out at any moment. Everything 
depended on my keeping this little light alive. Suddenly I had the 
feeling that something was coming up behind me. I looked back, 
and saw a gigantic black figure following me. But at the same 
moment I was conscious, in spite of my terror, that I must keep my 
little light going through night and wind, regardless of all dangers. 
When I awoke I realized at once that the figure was a "specter of the 
Bracken," my own shadow on the swirling mists, brought into being 
by the little light I was carrying. I knew, too, that this little light was my 
consciousness, the only light I have. My own understanding is the 
sole treasure I possess, and the greatest. Though infinitely small 
and fragile in comparison with the powers of darkness, it is still a 
light, my only light. 

This dream was a great illumination for me. Now I knew that No. 1 
was the bearer of the light, and that No. 2 followed him like a 
shadow. My task was to shield the light and not look back at the vita 
peracta; this was evidently a forbidden realm of light of a different 
sort. I must go forward against the storm, which sought to thrust me 
back into the immeasurable darkness of a world where one is 
aware of nothing except the surfaces of things in the background. In 
the role of No. 1, I had to go forward-into study, moneymaking, 
responsibilities, entanglements, confusions, errors, submissions, 
defeats. The storm pushing against me was time, ceaselessly 
flowing into the past, which just as ceaselessly dogs our heels. It 



exerts a mighty suction which greedily draws everything living into 
itself; we can only escape from it— for a while-by.pressing forward. 
The past is terribly real and present, and it catches everyone who 
cannot save his skin with a satisfactory answer. 

My view of the world spun around another ninety degrees; I 
recognized clearly that my path led irrevocably outward, into the 
limitations and darkness of three-dimensionality. It seemed to me 
that Adam must once have left Paradise in this manner; Eden had 
become a specter for him, and light was where a stony field had to 
be tilled in the sweat of his brow. 

I asked myself: "Whence comes such a dream?" Till then I had 
taken it for granted that such dreams were sent directly by God. But 
now I had imbibed so much epistemology that doubts assailed me. 
One might say, for instance, that my insight had been slowly 
ripening for a long time and had then suddenly broken through in a 
dream. And that, indeed, is what had happened. But this 
explanation is merely a description. The real question was why this 
process took place and why it broke through into consciousness. 
Consciously I had done nothing to promote any such development; 
on the contrary, my sympathies were on the other side. Something 
must therefore have been at work behind the scenes, some 
intelligence, at any rate something more intelligent than myself. For 
the extraordinary idea that in the light of consciousness the inner 
realm of light appears as a gigantic shadow was not something I 
would have hit on of my own accord. Now all at once I understood 
many things that had been inexplicable to me before-in particular 
that cold shadow of embarrassment and estrangement which 
passed over people's faces whenever I alluded to anything 
reminiscent of the inner realm. 

I must leave No. 2 behind me, that was clear. But under no 
circumstances ought I to deny him to myself or declare him invalid. 



That would have been a self-mutilation, and would moreover have 
deprived me of any possibility of explaining the origin of the 
dreams. For there was no doubt in my mind that No. 2 had 
something to do with the creation of dreams, and I could easily 
credit him with the necessary superior intelligence. But I felt myself 
to be increasingly identical with No. 1 , and this state proved in turn 
to be merely a part of the far more comprehensive No. 2, with whom 
for that very reason I could no longer feel myself identical. He was 
indeed a specter, a spirit who could hold his own against the world 
of darkness. This was something I had not known before the dream, 
and even at the time-l am sure of this in retrospect-l was 
conscious of it only vaguely, although I knew it emotionally beyond a 
doubt. 

At any rate, a schism had taken place between me and No. 2, with 
the result that "I" was assigned to No. 1 and was separated from 
No. 2. in the same degree, who thereby acquired, as it were, an 
autonomous personality. I did not connect this with the idea of any 
definite individuality, such as a revenant might have, although with 
my rustic origins this possibility would not have seemed strange to 
me. In the country people believe in these things according to the 
circumstances: they are and they are not. The only distinct feature 
about this spirit was his historical character, his extension in time, 
or rather, his timelessness. Of course I did not tell myself this in so 
many words, nor did I form any conception of his spatial existence. 
He played the role of a factor in the background of my No. 1 
existence, never clearly defined but yet definitely present. 

Children react much less to what grown-ups say than to the 
imponderables in the surrounding atmosphere. The child 
unconsciously adapts himself to them, this produces in him 
correlations of a compensatory nature. The peculiar "religious" 
ideas that came to me even in my earliest childhood were 
spontaneous products which can be understood only as reactions 



to my parental enviromnent and to the spirit of the age. The 
religious doubts to which my father was later to succumb naturally 
had to pass through a long period of incubation. Such a revolution 
of one's world, and of the world in general, threw its shadows 
ahead, and the shadows were all the longer, the more desperately 
my father's conscious mind resisted their power. It is not surprising 
that my father's forebodings put him in a state of unrest, which then 
communicated itself to me. 

I never had the impression that these influences emanated from my 
mother, for she was somehow rooted in deep, invisible ground, 
though it never appeared to me as confidence in her Christian faith. 
For me it was somehow connected with animals, trees, mountains, 
meadows, and running water, all of which contrasted most strangely 
with her Christian surface and her conventional assertions of faith. 
This background corresponded so well to my own attitude that it 
caused me no uneasiness; on the contrary, it gave me a sense of 
security and the conviction that here was solid ground on which one 
could stand. It never occurred to me how "pagan" this foundation 
was. My mother's "No. 2" offered me the strongest support in the 
conflict then beginning between paternal tradition and the strange, 
compensatory products which my unconscious had been stimulated 
to create. 

Looking back, I now see how very much my development as a child 
anticipated future events and paved the way for modes of 
adaptation to my father's religious collapse as well as to the 
shattering revelation of the world as we see it today-a revelation 
which had not taken shape from one day to the next, but had cast its 
shadows long in advance. Although we human beings have our own 
personal life, we are yet in large measure the representatives, the 
victims and promoters of a collective spirit whose years are 
counted in centuries. We can well think all our lives long that we are 
following our own noses, and mav never discover that we are, for 



the most part, supernumeraries on the stage of the world theater. 
There are factors which, although we do not know them, 
nevertheless influence our lives, the more so if they are 
unconscious. Thus at least a part of our being lives in the centuries- 
that part which, for my private use, I have designated "No. 2." That it 
is not an individual curiosity is proved by the religion of the West, 
which expressly applies itself to this inner man and for two thousand 
years has earnestly tried to bring him to the knowledge of our 
surface consciousness with its personalistic preoccupations: "Non 
foras ire, in interiore homine habitat Veritas" (Go not outside; truth 
dwells in the inner man). 

During the years 1892-94 I had a number of rather vehement 
discussions with my father. He had studied Oriental languages in 
Gottingen and had done his dissertation on the Arabic version of 
the Song of Songs. His days of glory had ended with his final 
examination. Thereafter he forgot his linguistic talent. As a country 
parson he lapsed into a sort of sentimental idealism and into 
reminiscences of his golden student days, continued to smoke a 
long student's pipe, and discovered that his marriage was not all he 
had imagined it to be. He did a great deal of good-far too much- 
and as a result was usually irritable. Both parents made great 
efforts to live devout lives, with the result that there were angry 
scenes between them only too frequently. These difficulties, 
understandably enough, later shattered my father's faith. 

At that time his irritability and discontent had increased, and his 
condition filled me with concern. My mother avoided everything that 
might excite him and refused to engage in disputes. Though I 
realized that this was the wisest course to take, often I could not 
keep my own temper in check. I would remain passive during his 
outbursts of rage, but when he seemed to be in a more accessible 
mood I sometimes tried to strike up a conversation with him, hoping 



to learn something about his inner thoughts and his understanding 
of himself. It was clear to me that something quite specific was 
tormenting him, and I suspected that it had to do with his faith. From 
a number of hints he let fall I was convinced that he suffered from 
religious doubts. This, it seemed to me, was bound to be the case if 
the necessary experience had not come to him. From my attempts 
at discussion I learned in fact that something of the sort was amiss, 
for all my questions were met with the same old lifeless theological 
answers, or with a resigned shrug which aroused the spirit of 
contradiction in me. I could not understand why he did not seize on 
these opportunities pugnaciously and come to terms with his 
situation. I saw that my critical questions made him sad, but I 
nevertheless hoped for a constructive talk, since it appeared almost 
inconceivable to me that he should not have had experience of 
God, the most evident of all experiences. I knew enough about 
epistemology to realize that knowledge of this sort could not be 
proved, but it was equally clear to me that it stood in no more need 
of proof than the beauty of a sunset or the terrors of the night. I tried, 
no doubt very clumsily, to convey these obvious truths to him, with 
the hopeful intention of helping him to bear the fate which had 
inevitably befallen him. He had to quarrel with somebody, so he did 
it with his family and himself. Why didn't he do it with God, the dark 
author of all created things, who alone was responsible for the 
sufferings of the world? God would assuredly have sent him byway 
of an answer one of those magical, infinitely profound dreams which 
He had sent to me even without being asked, and which had sealed 
my fate. I did not know why, it simply was so. Yes, He had even 
allowed me a glimpse into His own being. This was a great secret 
which I dared not and could not reveal to my father. I might have 
been able to reveal it had he been capable of understanding the 
direct experience of God. But in my talks with him I never got that 
far, never even came within sight of the problem, because I always 
set about it in a very unpsychological and intellectual way, and did 



everything possible to avoid the emotional aspects. Each time this 
approach was like a red rag to a bull and led to irritable reactions 
which were incomprehensible to me. I was unable to understand 
how a perfectly rational argument could meet with such emotional 
resistance. 

These fruitless discussions exasperated my father and me, and in 
the end we abandoned them, each burdened with his own specific 
feeling of inferiority. Theology had alienated my father and me from 
one another. I felt that I had once again suffered a fatal defeat, 
though I sensed I was not alone. I had a dim premonition that he 
was inescapably succumbing to his fate. He was lonely and had no 
friend to talk with. At least I knew no one among our acquaintances 
whom I would have trusted to say the saving word. Once I heard him 
praying. He struggled desperately to keep his faith. I was shaken 
and outraged at once, because I saw how hopelessly he was 
entrapped by the Church and its theological thinking. They had 
blocked all avenues by which he might have reached God directly, 
and then faithlessly abandoned him. Now I understood the deepest 
meaning of my earlier experience: God Himself had disavowed 
theology and the Church founded upon it. On the other hand God 
condoned this theology, as He condoned so much else. It seemed 
ridiculous to me to suppose that men were responsible for such 
developments. What were men, anyway? "They are born dumb and 
blind as puppies," I thought, "and like all God's creatures are 
furnished with the dimmest light, never enough to illuminate the 
darkness in which they grope." I was equally sure that none of the 
theologians I knew had ever seen "the light that shineth in the 
darkness" with his own eyes, for if they had they would not have 
been able to teach a "theological religion," which seemed quite 
inadequate to me, since there was nothing to do with it but believe it 
without hope. This was what my father had tried valiantly to do, and 
had run aground. He could not even defend himself against the 



ridiculous materialism of the psychiatrists. This, too, was something 
that one had to believe, just like theology, only in the opposite 
sense. I felt more certain than ever that both of them lacked 
epistemological criticism as well as experience. 

My father was obviously under the impression that psychiatrists had 
discovered something in the brain which proved that in the place 
where mind should have been there was only matter, and nothing 
"spiritual." This was borne out by his admonitions that if I studied 
medicine I should in Heaven's name not become a materialist. To 
me this warning meant that I ought to believe nothing at all, for I 
knew that materialists believed in their definitions just as the 
theologians did in theirs, and that my poor father had simply jumped 
out of the frying pan into the fire. I recognized that this celebrated 
faith of his had played this deadly trick on him, and not only on him 
but on most of the cultivated and serious people I knew. The arch 
sin of faith, it seemed to me, was that it forestalled experience. How 
did the theologians know that God had deliberately arranged 
certain things and "permitted" certain others, and how did the 
psychiatrists know that matter was endowed with the qualities of the 
human mind? 1 was in no danger of succumbing to materialism, but 
my father certainly was. Apparently someone had whispered 
something about "suggestion," for I discovered that he was reading 
Bernheim's book on suggestion in Sigmund Freud's translation^ ] 
This was a new and significant departure, for I had never before 
seen my father reading anything but novels or an occasional travel 
book. All "clever" and interesting books were taboo. But his 
psychiatric reading made him no happier. His depressive moods 
increased in frequency and intensity, and so did his hypochondria. 
For a number of years he had complained of all sorts of abdominal 
symptoms, though his doctor had been unable to find anything 
definite wrong with him. Now he complained of the sensation of 
having "stones in 



1 Die Suggestion und ihre Heilwirkung (Leipzig and Vienna, 1888). 

the abdomen." For a long time we did not take this seriously, but at 
last the doctor became suspicious. This was toward the end of the 
summer of 1895. 

In the spring of that year I had begun my studies at the University of 
Basel. The only time in my life that I have ever been bored-my 
school days at the Gymnasium was over at last and the golden 
gates to the universitas litterarum and to academic freedom were 
opening wide for me. Now I would hear the truth about nature, at 
least its most essential aspects. I would learn all there was to know 
about the anatomy and physiology of man, and would acquire 
knowledge of the diseases. In addition to all this, I was admitted 
into a color-wearing fraternity to which my father had belonged. 
Early in my freshman year he came along on a fraternity outing to a 
wine-growing village in the Markgrafen country and there delivered 
a whimsical speech in which, to my delight, the gay spirit of his own 
student days came back again. I realized in a flash that his life had 
come to a standstill at his graduation, and the verse of a student 
song echoed in my ears: 

Sie zogen mit gesenktem. Blick 
In das Philisterland zuruck. 
O jerum, jerum, jerum, 
O quae mutatio rerum! "[2] 

The words fell heavily on my soul. Once upon a time he too had 
been an enthusiastic student in his first year, as I was now; the 
world had opened out for him, as it was doing for me; the infinite 
treasures of knowledge had spread before him, as now before me. 
How can it have happened that everything was blighted for him, had 
turned to sourness and bitterness? I found no answer, or too many. 
The speech he delivered that summer evening over the wine was 
the last chance he had to live out his memories of the time when he 



was what he should have been. Soon afterward his condition 
deteriorated. In the late autumn of 1895 he became bedridden, and 
early in 1896 he died. 

2 "With downcast eyes they marched back to the land of the Philistines. O 
dear, Odear, Odear, how things ha\e changed" 

I had come home after lectures, and asked how he was. "Oh, still 
the same. He's very weak," my mother said. He whispered 
something to her, which she repeated to me, warning me with her 
eyes of his delirious condition: "He wants to know whether you have 
passed the state examination? I saw that I must lie. "Yes, it went 
very well." He sighed with relief, and closed his eyes. A little later I 
went in to see him again. He was alone; my mother was doing 
something in the adjoining room. There was a rattling in his throat, 
and I could see that he was in the death agony. I stood by his bed, 
fascinated. I had never seen anyone die before. Suddenly he 
stopped breathing. I waited and waited for the next breath. It did not 
come. Then I remembered my mother and went into the next room, 
where she sat by the window, knitting. "He is dying," I said. She 
came with me to the bed, and saw that he was dead. She said as if 
in wonderment: "How quickly it has all passed." 

The following days were gloomy and painful, and little of them has 
remained in my memory. Once my mother spoke to me or to the 
surrounding air in her "second" voice, and remarked, "He died in 
time for you." Which appeared to mean: "You did not understand 
each other and he might have become a hindrance to you." This 
view seemed to me to fit in with my mother's No. 2 personality. 

The words "for you" hit me terribly hard, and I felt that a bit of the old 
days had now come irrevocably to an end. At the same time, a bit 
of manliness and freedom awoke in me. After my father's death I 
moved into his room, and took his place inside the family. For 



instance, I had to hand out the housekeeping money to my mother 
every week, because she was unable to economize and could not 
manage money. 

Six weeks after his death my father appeared to me in a dream. 
Suddenly he stood before me and said that he was coming back 
from his holiday. He had made a good recovery and was now 
coming home. I thought he would be annoyed with me for having 
moved into his room. But not a bit of it! Nevertheless, I felt ashamed 
because I had imagined he was dead. Two days later the dream 
was repeated. My father had recovered and was coming home, and 
again I reproached myself because I had thought he was dead. 
Later I kept asking myself: "What does it mean that my father 
returns in dreams and that he seems so real?" It was an 
unforgettable experience, and it forced me for the first time to think 
about life after death. With the death of my father difficult problems 
arose concerning the continuation of my studies. Some of my 
mother's relations took the view that I ought to look for a clerk's job 
in a business house, so as to earn money as quickly as possible. 
My mother's youngest brother offered to help her, since her 
resources were not nearly sufficient to live on. An uncle on my 
father's side helped me. At the end of my studies I owed him three 
thousand francs. The rest I earned by working as a junior assistant 
and by helping an aged aunt dispose of her small collection of 
antiques. I sold them piece by piece at good prices, and received a 
very welcome percentage. 

I would not have missed this time of poverty. One learns to value 
simple things. I still remember the time when I was given a box of 
cigars as a present. It seemed to me princely. They lasted a whole 
year, for I allowed myself one only on Sundays. My student days 
were a good time for me. Everything was intellectually alive, and it 
was also a time of friendships. In the fraternity meetings I gave 
several lectures on theological and psychological subjects. We had 



many animated discussions, and not always about medical 
questions only. We argued over Schopenhauer and Kant, we knew 
all about the stylistic niceties of Cicero, and were interested in 
theology and philosophy. 

During my student days I received much stimulation in regard to 
religious questions. At home I had the welcome opportunity to talk 
with a theologian who had been my father's vicar. He was 
distinguished not only by his phenomenal appetite, which put mine 
quite in the shade, but by his remarkable erudition. From him I 
learned a great deal about the Church Fathers and the history of 
dogma. He also introduced me to new aspects of Protestant 
theology. Ritschl's theology was much in fashion in those days. Its 
historicism irritated me, especially the comparison with a railway 
train. The theological students with whom I had discussions in the 
fraternity all seemed quite 

3Albrecht Ritschl (1822-89) compared Christ's coming to the shunting of a 
railroad train. The engine gives a push from behind, the motion passes 
through the entire train, and the foremost car begins to move. Thus the 
impulse given by Christ is transmitted down the centuries. -A. J. 

content with the theory of the historical effect produced by Christ's 
life. This view seemed to me not only soft-witted but altogether 
lifeless. Neither could I subscribe to the tendency to move Christ 
into the foreground and make him the sole decisive figure in the 
drama of God and man. To me this absolutely belied Christ's own 
view that the Holy Ghost, who had begotten him, would take his 
place among men after his death. 

For me the Holy Ghost was a manifestation of the inconceivable 
God. The workings of the Holy Ghost were not only sublime but also 
partook of that strange and even questionable quality which 
characterized the deeds of Yahweh, whom I naively identified with 



the Christian image of God, as I had been taught in my instruction 
for confirmation. (I was also not aware at this time that the devil, 
properly speaking, had been born with Christianity.) Lord Jesus 
was to me unquestionably a man and therefore a fallible figure, or 
else a mere mouthpiece of the Holy Ghost. This highly unorthodox 
view, a far cry from the theological one, naturally ran up against utter 
incomprehension. The disappointment I felt about this gradually led 
me to a kind of resigned indifference, and confirmed my conviction 
that in religious matters only experience counted. 

During my first years at the university I made the discovery that 
while science opened the door to enormous quantities of 
knowledge, it provided genuine insights very sparingly, and these in 
the main were of a specialized nature. I knew from my philosophical 
reading that the existence of the psyche was responsible for this 
situation. Without the psyche there would be neither knowledge nor 
insight. Yet nothing was ever said about the psyche. Everywhere it 
was tacitly taken for granted, and even when someone mentioned 
it-as did C. G. Cams, for example-there was no real knowledge of 
it but only philosophical speculation which might just as easily take 
one turn as another. I could make neither head nor tail of this 
curious observation. 

At the end of my second semester, however, I made another 
discovery, which was to have great consequences. In the library of a 
classmate's father I came upon a small book on spiritualistic 
phenomena, dating from the seventies. It was an account of 
beginnings of spiritualism, and was written by a theologian. My 
initial doubts were quickly dissipated, for I could not help seeing 
that the phenomena described in the book were in principle much 
the same as the stories I had heard again and again in the country 
since my earliest childhood. The material, without a doubt, was 
authentic. But the great question of whether these stories were 
physically true was not answered to my satisfaction. Nevertheless, it 



could be established that at all times and all over the world the 
same stories had been reported again and again. There must be 
some reason for this, and it could not possibly have been the 
predominance of the same religious conceptions everywhere, for 
that was obviously not the case. Rather it must be connected with 
the objective behavior of the human psyche. But with regard to this 
cardinal question-the objective nature of the psyche-l could find 
out absolutely nothing, except what the philosophers said. 

The observations of the spiritualists, weird and questionable as 
they seemed to me, were the first accounts I had seen of objective 
psychic phenomena. Names like Zoellner and Crookes impressed 
themselves on me, and I read virtually the whole of the literature 
available to me at the time. Naturally I also spoke of these matters 
to my comrades, who to my great astonishment reacted with 
derision and disbelief or with anxious defensiveness. I wondered at 
the sureness with which they could assert that things like ghosts and 
table-turning were impossible and therefore fraudulent, and on the 
other hand at the evidently anxious nature of their defensiveness. I, 
too, was not certain of the absolute reliability of the reports, but why, 
after all, should there not be ghosts? How did we know that 
something was "impossible"? And, above all, what did the anxiety 
signify? For myself I found such possibilities extremely interesting 
and attractive. They added another dimension to my life; the world 
gained depth and background. Could, for example, dreams have 
anything to do with ghosts? Kant's Dreams of a Spirit Seer came 
just at the right moment, and soon I also discovered Karl Duprel, 
who had evaluated these ideas philosophically and psychologically. 
I dug up Eschenmayer, Passavant, Justinus Kerner, and Gorres, 
and read seven volumes of Swedenborg. 

My mother's No. 2 sympathized wholeheartedly with my enthusiasm, 
but everyone else I knew was distinctly discouraging. Hitherto I had 



encountered only the brick wall of traditional views, but now I came 
up against the steel of people's prejudice and their utter incapacity 
to admit unconventional possibilities. I found this even with my 
closest friends. To them all this was far worse than my 
preoccupation with theology. I had the feeling that I had pushed to 
the brink of the world; what was of burning interest to me was null 
and void for others, I and even a cause for dread. 

Dread of what? I could find no explanation for this. After all, there 
was nothing preposterous or world-shaking in the idea that there 
might be events which overstepped the limited categories of space, 
time, and causality. Animals were known to sense beforehand 
storms and earthquakes. There were dreams which foresaw the 
death of certain persons, clocks which stopped at the moment of 
death, glasses which shattered at the critical moment. All these 
things had been taken for granted in the world of my childhood. And 
now I was apparently the only person who had ever heard of them. 
In all earnestness I asked myself what kind of world I had stumbled 
into. Plainly the urban world knew nothing about the country world, 
the real world of mountains, woods, and rivers, of animals and 
"God's thoughts" (plants and crystals). I found this explanation 
comforting. At all events, it bolstered my self-esteem, for I realized 
that for all its wealth of learning the urban world was mentally rather 
limited. This insight proved dangerous, because it tricked me into 
fits of superiority, misplaced criticism, and aggressiveness, which 
got me deservedly disliked. This eventually brought back all the old 
doubts, inferiority feelings, and depressions-a vicious circle I was 
resolved to break at all costs. No longer would I stand outside the 
world, enjoying the dubious reputation of a freak. 

After my first introductory course I became junior assistant in 
anatomy, and the following semester the demonstrator placed me 
in charge of the course in histology-to my intense satisfaction, 
naturally. I interested myself primarily in evolutionary theory and 



comparative anatomy, and I also became acquainted with neo- 
vitalistic doctrines. What fascinated me most of all was the 
morphological point of view in the broadest sense. With physiology 
it was just the opposite. I found the subject thoroughly repellent 
because of vivisection, which was practiced merely for purposes of 
demonstration. I could never free myself from the feeling that warm- 
blooded creatures were akin to us and not just cerebral automata. 
Consequently I cut demonstration classes whenever I could. I 
realized that one had to experiment on animals, but the 
demonstration of such experiments nevertheless seemed to me 
horrible, barbarous, and above all unnecessary. I had imagination 
enough to picture the demonstrated procedures from a mere 
description of them. My compassion for animals did not derive from 
the Buddhistic trimmings of Schopenhauer's philosophy, but rested 
on the deeper foundation of a primitive attitude of mind-on an 
unconscious identity with animals. At the time, of course, I was 
wholly ignorant of this important psychological fact. My repugnance 
for physiology was so great that my examination results in this 
subject were correspondingly poor. Nevertheless, I scraped 
through. 

The clinical semesters that followed kept me so busy that scarcely 
any time remained for my forays into outlying fields. I was able to 
study Kant only on Sundays. I also read Eduard von Hartmann 
assiduously. Nietzsche had been on my program for some time, but 
I hesitated to begin reading him because I felt I was insufficiently 
prepared. At that time he was much discussed, mostly in adverse 
terms, by the allegedly competent philosophy students, from which I 
was able to deduce the hostility he aroused in the higher echelons. 
The supreme authority, of course, was Jakob Burckhardt, whose 
various critical comments on Nietzsche were bandied about. 
Moreover, there were some persons at the university who had 
known Nietzsche personally and were able to retail all sorts of 



unflattering tidbits about him. Most of them had not read a word of 
Nietzsche and therefore dwelt at length on his outward foibles, for 
example, his putting on airs as a gentleman, his manner of playing 
the piano, his stylistic exaggerations-idiosyncrasies which got on 
the nerves of the good people of Basel in those days. Such things 
would certainly not have caused me to postpone the reading of 
Nietzsche-on the contrary, they acted as the strongest incentive. 
But I was held back by a secret fear that I might perhaps be like 
him, at least in regard to the "secret" which had isolated him from 
his environment. Perhaps-who knows?-he had had inner 
experiences, insights which he had unfortunately attempted to talk 
about, and had found that no one understood him. Obviously he 
was, or at least was considered to be, an eccentric, a sport of 
nature, which I did not want to be under any circumstances. I feared 
I might be forced to recognize that I too was another such strange 
bird. Of course, he was a professor, had written whole long books 
and so had attained unimaginable heights, but, like me, he was a 
clergyman's son. He, however, had been born in the great land of 
Germany, which reached as far as the sea, while I was only a Swiss 
and sprang from a modest parsonage in a small border village. He 
spoke a polished High German, knew Latin and Greek, possibly 
French, Italian, and Spanish as well, whereas the only language I 
commanded with any certainty was the Waggis-Basel dialect. He, 
possessed of all these splendors, could well afford to be something 
of an eccentric, but I must not let myself find out how far I might be 
like him. 

In spite of these trepidations I was curious, and finally resolved to 
read him. Thoughts Out of Season was the first volume that fell into 
my hands. I was carried away by enthusiasm, and soon afterward 
read Thus Spake Zarathustra. This, like Goethe's Faust, was a 
tremendous experience for me. Zarathustra was Nietzsche's Faust, 
his No. 2, and my No. 2 now corresponded to Zarathustra-though 



this was rather like comparing a molehill with Mount Blanc. And 
Zarathustra-there could be no doubt about that-was morbid. Was 
my No. 2 also morbid? This possibility filled me with a terror which 
for a long time I refused to admit, but the idea cropped up again 
and again at inopportune moments, throwing me into a cold sweat, 
so that in the end I was forced to reflect on myself. Nietzsche had 
discovered his No. 2 only late in life, when he was already past 
middle age, whereas I had known mine ever since boyhood. 
Nietzsche had spoken naively and incautiously about this arrheton, 
this thing not to be named, as though it were quite in order. But I 
had noticed in time that this only leads to trouble. He was so brilliant 
that he was able to come to Basel as a professor when still a young 
man, not suspecting what lay ahead of him. Because of his very 
brilliance he should have noticed in time that something was amiss. 
That, I thought, was his morbid misunderstanding: that he fearlessly 
and unsuspectingly let his No. 2 loose upon a world that knew and 
understood nothing about such things. He was moved by the 
childish hope of finding people who would be able to share his 
ecstasies and could grasp his "transvaluation of all values." But he 
found only educated Philistines-tragi-comically, he was one 
himself. Like the rest of them, he did not understand himself when 
he fell head first into the unutterable mystery and wanted to sing its 
praises to the dull, godforsaken masses. That was the reason for 
the bombastic language, the piling up of metaphors, the hymnlike 
raptures-all a vain attempt to catch the ear of a world which had 
sold its soul for a mass of disconnected facts.-And he fell- 
tightrope-walker that he proclaimed himself to be-into depths far 
beyond himself. He did not know his way about in this world and 
was like a man possessed, one who could be handled only with the 
utmost caution. Among my friends and acquaintances I knew of only 
two who openly declared themselves adherents of Nietzsche. Both 
were homosexual; one of them ended by committing suicide, the 
other ran to seed as a misunderstood genius. The rest of my friends 



were not so much dumfounded by the phenomenon of Zarathustra 
as simply immune to its appeal. 

Just as Faust had opened a door for me, Zarathustra slammed one 
shut, and it remained shut for a long time to come. I felt like the old 
peasant who discovered that two of his cows had evidently been 
bewitched and had got their heads in the same halter. "How did that 
happen?" asked his small son. "Boy, one doesn't talk about such 
things," replied his father. 

I realized that one gets nowhere unless one talks to people about 
the things they know. The naive person does not appreciate what 
an insult it is to talk to one's fellows about anything that is unknown 
to them. They pardon such ruthless behavior only in a writer, 
journalist, or poet. I came to see that a new idea, or even just an 
unusual aspect of an old one, can be communicated only by facts. 
Facts remain and cannot be brushed aside; sooner or later 
someone will come upon them and know what he has found. I 
realized that I talked only for want of something better, that I ought to 
be offering facts, and these I lacked entirely. I had nothing concrete 
in my hands. More than ever I found myself driven toward 
empiricism. I began to blame the philosophers for rattling away 
when experience was lacking, and holding their tongues when they 
ought to have been answering with facts. In this respect they all 
seemed like watered-down theologians. I felt that at some time or 
other I had passed through the valley of diamonds, but I could 
convince no one-not even myself, when I looked at them more 
closely-that the specimens I had brought back were not mere 
pieces of gravel. 

This was in 1898, when I began to think more seriously about my 
career as a medical man. I soon came to the conclusion that I would 
have to specialize. The choice seemed to lie between surgery and 
internal medicine. I inclined toward the former because of my 



special training in anatomy and my preference for pathology, and 
would very probably have made surgery my profession if I had 
possessed the necessary financial means. All along, it had been 
extremely painful to me to have to go into debt in order to study at 
all. I knew that after the final examination I would have to begin 
earning my living as soon as possible. I imagined a career as 
assistant at some cantonal hospital, where there was more hope of 
obtaining a paid position than in a clinic. Moreover, a post in a 
clinic depended to a large extent on the backing or personal 
interest of the chief. With my questionable popularity and 
estrangement from others-experienced all too often-l dared not 
think of any such stroke of luck, and therefore contented myself with 
the modest prospect of a post in one of the local hospitals. The rest 
depended on hard work and on my capability and application. 

During the summer holidays, however, something happened that 
was destined to influence me profoundly. One day I was sitting in 
my room, studying my textbooks. In the adjoining room, the door to 
which stood ajar, my mother was knitting. That was our dining room, 
where the round walnut dining table stood. The table had come from 
the dowry of my paternal grandmother, and was at this time about 
seventy years old. My mother was sitting by the window, about a 
yard away from the table. My sister was at school and our maid in 
the kitchen. Suddenly there sounded a report like a pistol shot. I 
jumped up and rushed into the room from which the noise of the 
explosion had come. My mother was sitting flabbergasted in her 
armchair, the knitting fallen from her hands. She stammered out, 
"W-w-what's happened? It was right beside mel" and stared at the 
table. Following her eyes, I saw what had happened. The table top 
had split from the rim to beyond the center, and not along any joint; 
the split ran right through the solid wood. I was thunderstruck. How 
could such a thing happen? A table of solid walnut that had dried 
out for seventy years-how could it split on a summer day in the 



relatively high degree of humidity characteristic of our climate? If it 
had stood next to a heated stove on a cold, dry winter day, then it 
might have been conceivable. 

What in the world could have caused such an explosion? "There 
certainly are curious accidents," I thought. My mother nodded 
darkly. "Yes, yes," she said in her No. 2 voice, "that means 
something." Against my will I was impressed and annoyed with 
myself for not finding anything to say. 

Some two weeks later I came home at six o'clock in the evening 
and found the household-my mother, my fourteen-year-old sister, 
and the maid-in a great state of agitation. About an hour earlier 
there had been another deafening report. This time it was not the 
already damaged table; the noise had come from the direction of 
the sideboard, a heavy piece of furniture dating from the early 
nineteenth century. They had already looked all over it, but had 
found no trace of a split. I immediately began examining the 
sideboard and the entire surrounding area, but just as fruitlessly. 
Then I began on the interior of the sideboard. In the cupboard 
containing the bread basket I found a loaf of bread, and, beside it, 
the bread knife. The greater part of the blade had snapped off in 
several pieces. The handle lay in one corner of the rectangular 
basket, and in each of the other corners lay a piece of the blade. 
The knife had been used shortly before, at four-o'clock tea, and 
afterward put away. Since then no one had gone to the sideboard. 

The next day I took the shattered knife to one of the best cutlers in 
the town. He examined the fractures with a magni- tying glass, and 
shook his head. "This knife is perfectly sound," he said. "There is 
no fault in the steel. Someone must have deliberately broken it 
piece by piece. It could be done, for instance, by sticking the blade 
into the crack of the drawer and - breaking off a piece at a time. Or 
else it might have been dropped on stone from a great height. But 



good steel can't explode. Someone has been pulling your leg." I 
have carefully kept the pieces of the knife to this day. My mother 
and my sister had been in the room when the sudden report made 
them jump. 

My mother's No. 2 looked at me meaningfully, but I could find 
nothing to say. I was completely at a loss and could offer no 
explanation of what had happened, and this was all the more 
annoying as I had to admit that I was profoundly impressed. Why 
and how had the table split and the knife shattered? The hypothesis 
that it was just a coincidence went much too far. It seemed highly 
improbable to me that the Rhine would flow backward just once, by 
mere chance-and all other possible explanations were 
automatically ruled out. So what was it? 

A few weeks later I heard of certain relatives who had been 
engaged for some time in table-turning, and also had a medium, a 
young girl of fifteen and a half. The group had been thinking of 
having me meet the medium, who produced somnambulistic states 
and spiritualistic phenomena. When I heard this, I immediately 
thought of the strange manifestations in our house, and I 
conjectured that they might be somehow connected with this 
medium. I therefore began attending the regular seances which my 
relatives held every Saturday evening. We had results in the form of 
communications and tapping noises from the walls and the table. 
Movements of the table independently of the medium were 
questionable, and I soon found out that limiting conditions imposed 
on the experiment generally had an obstructive effect. I therefore 
accepted the obvious autonomy of the tapping noises and turned 
my attention to the content of the communications. I set forth the 
results of these observations in my doctoral thesis. After about two 
years of experimentation we all became rather weary of it. I caught 
the medium trying to produce phenomena by trickery, and this 
made me break off the experiments-very much to my regret, for I 



had learned from this example how a No. 2 personality is formed, 
how it enters into a child's consciousness and finally integrates it 
into itself. She was one of these precociously matured 
personalities, and she died of tuberculosis at the age of twenty-six. I 
saw her once again, when she was twenty-four, and received a 
lasting impression of the independence and maturity of her 
personality. After her death I learned from her family that during the 
last months of her life her character disintegrated bit by bit, and that 
ultimately she returned to the state of a two-year-old child, in which 
condition she fell into her last sleep. 

All in all, this was the one great experience which wiped out all my 
earlier philosophy and made it possible for me to achieve a 
psychological point of view. I had discovered some objective facts 
about the human psyche. Yet the nature of the experience was such 
that once again I was unable to speak of it. I knew no one to whom I 
could have told the whole story. Once more I had to lay aside an 
unfinished problem. It was not until two years later that my 
dissertation appeared. [4] 

At the medical clinic Friedrich von Muller had taken the place of old 
Immermann. In Muller I encountered a mind that appealed to me. I 
saw how a keen intelligence grasped the problem and formulated 
questions which in themselves were half the solution. He, for his 
part, seemed to see something in me, for toward the end of my 
studies he proposed that I should go with him, as his assistant, to 
Munich, where he had received an appointment. This invitation 
almost persuaded me to devote myself to internal medicine. I might 
have done so had not something happened in the meantime which 
removed all my doubts Concerning my future career. 

4 Zur Psychologie und Pathologie sogenannter occulter Phanomene: eine 
psychietrische Studie (1902); English trans.: "On the Psychology and 
Pathology of So-called Occult Phenomena," in Psychiatric Studies (CW 1). 



Though I had attended psychiatric lectures and clinics, the current 
instructor in psychiatry was not exactly stimulating, and when I 
recalled the effects which the experience of asylums had had on my 
father, this was not calculated to prepossess me in favor of 
psychiatry. In preparing myself for the state examination, therefore, 
the textbook on psychiatry was the last I attacked. I expected 
nothing of it, and I still remember that as I opened the book by 
Krafft-Ebing[5] the thought came to me: '"Well, now let's see what a 
psychiatrist has to say for himself." The lectures and clinical 
demonstrations had not made the slightest impression on me. I 
could not remember a single one of the cases I had seen in the 
clinic, but only my boredom and disgust. 

I began with the preface, intending to find out how a psychiatrist 
introduced his subject or, indeed, justified his reason for existing at 
all. By way of excuse for this high and mighty attitude I must make it 
clear that in the medical world at that time psychiatry was quite 
generally held in contempt. No one really knew anything about it, 
and there was no psychology which regarded man as a whole and 
included his pathological variations in the total picture. The director 
was locked up in the same institution with his patients, and the 
institution was equally cut off, isolated on the outskirts of the city like 
an ancient lazaret with its lepers. No one liked looking in that 
direction. The doctors knew almost as little as the layman and 
therefore shared his feelings. Mental disease was a hopeless and 
fatal affair which cast its shadow over psychiatry as well. The 
psychiatrist was a strange f gure in those days, as I was soon to 
learn from personal experience. 

Beginning with the preface, I read; "It is probably due to the 
peculiarity of the subject and its incomplete state of development 
that psychiatric textbooks are stamped with a more or less 
subjective character." A few lines further on, the author called the 



psychoses "diseases of the personality? My heart suddenly began 
to pound. I had to stand up and draw a deep breath. My excitement 
was intense, for it had become clear to me, in a flash of illumination, 
that for me the only possible goal 

5 Lehrbuch der Psychiatrie, 4th edn. (1890). 

was psychiatry. Here alone the two currents of my interest could 
flow together and in a united stream dig their own bed. Here was 
the empirical field common to biological and spiritual facts, which I 
had everywhere sought and nowhere found. Here at last was the 
place where the collision of nature and spirit became a reality. 

My violent reaction set in when Krafft-Ebing spoke of the 
"subjective character" of psychiatric textbooks. So, I thought, the 
textbook is in part the subjective confession of the author. With his 
specific prejudice, with the totality of his being, he stands behind 
the objectivity of his experiences and responds to the "disease of 
the personality" with the whole of his own personality. Never had I 
heard anything of this sort from my teacher at the clinic. In spite of 
the fact that Krafft-Ebing's textbook did not differ essentially from 
other books of the kind, these few hints cast such a transfiguring 
light on psychiatry that I was irretrievably drawn under its spell. 

The decision was taken. When I informed my teacher in internal 
medicine of my intention, I could read in his face his amazement 
and disappointment. My old wound, the feeling of being an outsider 
and of alienating others, began to ache again. But now I understood 
why. No one, not even I myself, had ever imagined I could become 
interested in this obscure bypath. My friends were astounded and 
put out, thinking me a fool for throwing up the enviable chance of a 
sensible career in internal medicine, which dangled so temptingly 
before my nose, in favor of this psychiatric nonsense. 



I saw that once again I had obviously got myself into a side alley 
where no one could or would follow me. But I knew-and nothing and 
nobody could have deflected me from my purpose-that my 
decision stood, and that it was fate. It was as though two rivers had 
united and in one grand torrent were bearing me inexorably toward 
distant goals. This confident feeling that I was a "united double 
nature" carried me as if on a magical wave through the 
examination, in which I came out at the top. Characteristically, the 
stumbling block that lurks in the path of all miracles that turn out too 
well tripped me up in the very subject in which I really excelled, 
pathological anatomy. By a ridiculous error, in a slide which apart 
from all sorts of debris seemed to contain only epithelial cells, I 
overlooked some molds hiding in a corner. In the other subjects, I 
had even guessed what questions 1 would be asked. Thanks to this, 
I cleared several dangerous reefs with flying colors. In revenge, I 
was then fooled in the most grotesque way just where I felt most 
certain of myself. Had it not been for this I would have had the 
highest mark in the examination. 

As it was, another candidate received the same number of points 
as I did. He was a lone wolf, with a personality quite opaque to me 
and suspiciously banal. It was impossible to talk to him about 
anything except "shop." He reacted to everything with an enigmatic 
smile, which reminded me of the Greek statues at Aegina. He had 
an air of superiority, and yet underneath it he seemed embarrassed 
and never quite fitted into any situation. Or was it a kind of 
stupidity? I could never make him out. The only definite thing about 
him was the impression he gave of almost monomaniacal ambition 
which precluded interest in anything but sheer facts. A few years 
afterward he became schizophrenic. I mention this as a 
characteristic example of the parallelism of events. My first book 
was on the psychology of dementia praecox (schizophrenia), and in 
it my personality with its bias or "personal equation" responded to 



this "disease of the personality? I maintained that psychiatry, in the 
broadest sense, is a dialogue between the sick psyche and the 
psyche of the doctor, which is presumed to be "normal." It is a 
coming to terms between the sick personality and that of the 
therapist, both in principle equally subjective. My aim was to show 
that delusions and hallucinations were not just specific symptoms of 
mental disease but also had a human meaning. 

The evening after my last examination I treated myself-for the first 
time in my life— to the longed-for luxury of going to the theater. Until 
then my finances had not permitted any such extravagance. But I 
still had some money left from the sale of the antiques, and this 
allowed me not only a visit to the opera but even a trip to Munich 
and Stuttgart. 

Bizet intoxicated and overwhelmed me, rocked me on the a waves 
of an infinite sea. And next day, when the train carried me over the 
border into a wider world, the melodies of Carmen accompanied 
me. In Munich I saw real classical art for the first time, and this in 
conjunction with Bizet's music put me in a springlike, nuptial mood, 
whose depth and meaning I could only dimly grasp. Outwardly, 
however, it was a dismal week between the first and the ninth of 
December, 1900. 

In Stuttgart I paid a farewell visit to my aunt, Frau Reimer-Jung, 
whose husband was a psychiatrist. She was the daughter of my 
paternal grandfather's first marriage to Virginia de Lassaulx. She 
was an enchanting old lady with sparkling blue eyes and a vivacious 
temperament. She seemed to me immersed in a world of 
impalpable fantasies and of memories that refused to go home-the 
last breath of a vanishing, irrevocable past. This visit was a final 
farewell to the nostalgias of my childhood. 

On December 1 0, 1 900, 1 took up my post as assistant at Burgholzli 



Mental Hospital, Zurich. I was glad to be in Zurich, for in the course 
of the years Basel had become too stuffy for me. For the Baslers no 
town exists but their own: only Basel is "civilized," and north of the 
river Birs the land of the barbarians begins. My friends could not 
understand my going away, and reckoned I would be back in no 
time. But that was out of the question, for in Basel I was stamped for 
all time as the son of the Reverend Paul Jung and the grandson of 
Professor Carl Gustav Jung. I was an intellectual and belonged to a 
definite social set. I felt resistances against this, for I could not and 
would not let myself be classified. The intellectual atmosphere of 
Basel seemed to me enviably cosmopolitan, but the pressure of 
tradition was too much for me. When I came to Zurich I felt the 
difference at once. Zurich relates to the world not by the intellect but 
by commerce. Yet here the air was free, and I had always valued 
that. Here you were not weighed down by the brown fog of the 
centuries, even though one missed the rich background of culture. 
For Basel I have to this day a nostalgic weakness, despite the fact 
that I know it no longer is as it was. I still remember the days when 
Bachofen and Burckhardt walked in the streets, and behind the 
cathedral stood the old chapter house, and the old bridge over the 
Rhine, half made of wood. 

For my mother it was hard that I was leaving Basel. But I knew that I 
could not spare her this pain, and she bore it bravely. She lived 
together with my sister, a delicate and rather sickly nature, in every 
respect different from me. She was as though born to live the life of 
a spinster, and she never married. But she developed a remarkable 
personality, and I admired her attitude. She had to undergo an 
operation that was considered harmless, but she did not survive it. I 
was deeply impressed when I discovered that she had put all her 
affairs in order beforehand, down to the last detail. At bottom she 
was always a stranger to me, but I had great respect for her. I was 
rather emotional, whereas she was always composed, though very 



sensitive deep down. I could imagine her spending her days in a 
Home for Gentlewomen, just as the only sister of my grandfather 
had done. 

With my work at Burgholzli, life took on an undivided reality-all 
intention, consciousness, duty, and responsibility. It was an entry 
into the monastery of the world, a submission to the vow to believe 
only in what was probable, average, commonplace, barren of 
meaning, to renounce everything strange and significant, and 
reduce anything extraordinary to the banal. Henceforth there were 
only surfaces that hid nothing, only beginnings without continuations, 
accidents without coherence, knowledge, that shrank to ever 
smaller circles, failures that claimed to be problems, oppressively 
narrow horizons, and the unending desert of routine. For six months 
Mocked myself within the monastic walls in order to get accustomed 
to the life and spirit of the asylum, and I read through the fifty 
volumes of the Allgemeine Zeitschrift for Psychiatric from its very 
beginnings, in order to acquaint myself with the psychiatric 
mentality. I wanted to know how the human mind reacted to the sight 
of its own destruction, for psychiatry seemed to me an articulate 
expression of that biological reaction which seizes upon the so- 
called healthy mind in the presence of mental illness. My 
professional colleagues seemed to me no less interesting than the 
patients. In the years that followed I secretly compiled statistics on 
the hereditary background of my Swiss colleagues, and. gained 
much instruction. I did this for my personal edification as well as for 
the sake of understanding the psychiatric mentality. 

I need scarcely mention that my concentration and self-imposed 
confinement alienated me from my colleagues. They did not know, 
of course, how strange psychiatry seemed to me, and how intent I 
was on penetrating into its spirit. At that time my interest in therapy 
had not awakened, but the pathological variants of so-called 
normality fascinated me, because they offered me the longed-for 



opportunity to obtain a deeper insight into the psyche in general. 

These, then, were the conditions under which my career in 
psychiatry began-the subjective experiment out of which my 
objective life emerged. I have neither the desire nor the capacity to 
stand outside myself and observe my fate in a truly objective way. I 
would commit the familiar autobiographical mistake either of 
weaving an illusion about how it ought to have been, or of writing an 
apologia pro vita sua. In the end, man is an event which cannot 
judge itself, but, for better or worse, is left to the judgment of others. 



IV 



Psychiatric Activities 



THE YEARS at Burgholzli were my years of apprenticeship. 
Dominating my interests and research was the burning question: 
"What actually takes place inside the mentally ill?" That was 
something which I did not understand then, nor had any of my 
colleagues concerned themselves with such problems. Psychiatry 
teachers were not interested in what the patient had to say, but 
rather in how to make a diagnosis or how to describe symptoms 
and to compile statistics. From the clinical point of view which then 
prevailed, the human personality of the patient, his individuality, did 
not matter at all. Rather, the doctor was confronted with Patient X, 
with a long list of cut-and-dried diagnoses and a detailing of 
symptoms. Patients were labeled, rubber-stamped with a 
diagnosis, and, for the most part, that settled the matter. The 
psychology of the mental patient played no role whatsoever. 

At this point Freud became vitally important to me, especially 
because of his fundamental researches into the psychology of 
hysteria and of dreams. For me his ideas pointed the way to a 
closer investigation and understanding of individual cases. ; Freud 
introduced psychology into psychiatry, although he himself was a 
neurologist. 

I still recollect very well a case which greatly interested me at the 
time. A young woman had been admitted to the hospital, suffering 
from "melancholia." The examination was conducted with the usual 
care: anamnesis, tests, physical check-ups, and so on. The 



diagnosis was schizophrenia, or "dementia praecox," in the phrase 
of those days. The prognosis: poor. 

This woman happened to be in my section. At first I did not dare to 
question the diagnosis. I was still a young man then, a beginner, 
and would not have had the temerity to suggest another one. And 
yet the case struck me as strange. I had the feeling that it was not a 
matter of schizophrenia but of ordinary depression, and resolved to 
apply my own method. At the time I was much occupied with 
diagnostic association studies, and so I undertook an association 
experiment with the patient. In addition, I discussed her dreams with 
her. In this way I succeeded in uncovering her past, which the 
anamnesis had not clarified. I obtained information directly from the 
unconscious, and this infomation revealed a dark and tragic story. 

Before the woman married she had known a man, the son of a 
wealthy industrialist, in whom all the girls of the neighborhood were 
interested. Since she was very pretty, she thought her chances of 
catching 'him were fairly good. But apparently he did not care for 
her, and so she married another man. 

Five years later an old friend visited her. They were talking over old 
times, and he said to her, "When you got married it was quite a 
shock to someone-your Mr. X" (the wealthy industrialist's son). That 
was the moment! Her depression dated from this period, and 
several weeks later led to a catastrophe. She was bathing her 
children, first her four-year-old girl and then her two-year-old son. 
She lived in a country where the water supply was not perfectly 
hygienic; there was pure spring water for drinking, and tainted water 
from the river for bathing and washing. While she was bathing the 
little girl, she saw the child sucking at the sponge, but did not stop 
her. She even gave her little son a glass of the impure water to 
drink. Naturally, she did this unconsciously, or only half consciously, 
for her mind was already under the shadow of the incipient 



depression. 

A short time later, after the incubation period had passed, the girl 
came down with typhoid fever and died. The girl had been her 
favorite. The boy was not infected. At that moment the depression 
reached its acute stage, and the woman was sent to the institution. 

From the association test I had seen that she was a murderess, 
and I had learned many of the details of her secret. It was at once 
apparent that this was a sufficient reason for her depression. 
Essentially it was a psychogenic disturbance and not a case of 
schizophrenia. 

Now what could be done in the way of therapy? Up to then the 
woman had been given narcotics to combat her insomnia and had 
been under guard to prevent attempts at suicide. But otherwise 
nothing had been done. Physically, she was in good condition. 

I was confronted with the problem: Should I speak openly with her or 
not? Should I undertake the major operation? I was faced with a 
conflict of duties altogether without precedent in my experience. I 
had a difficult question of conscience to answer, and had to settle 
the matter with myself alone. If I had asked my colleagues, they 
would probably have warned me, "For heaven's sake, don't tell the 
woman any such thing. That will only make her still crazier." To my 
mind, the effect might well be the reverse. In general it may be said 
that unequivocal rules scarcely exist in psychology. A question can 
be answered one way or another, depending on whether or not we 
take the unconscious factors into account. Of course I knew very 
well the personal risk I was running: if the patient got worse, I would 
be in the soup too! 

Nevertheless, I decided to take a chance on a therapy whose 
outcome was uncertain. I told her everything I had discovered 



through the association test. It can easily be imagined how difficult it 
was for me to do this. To accuse a person point-blank of murder is 
no small matter. And it was tragic for the patient to have to listen to 
it and accept it. But the result was that in two weeks it proved 
possible to discharge her, and she was never again 
institutionalized. 

There were other reasons that caused me to say nothing to my 
colleagues about this case. I was afraid of their discussing it and 
possibly raising legal questions. Nothing could be proved against 
the patient, of course, and yet such a discussion might have had 
disastrous consequences for her. Fate had punished her enough! It 
seemed to me more meaningful that she should return to life in 
order to atone in life for her crime. When she was discharged, she 
departed bearing her heavy burden. She had to bear this burden. 
The loss of the child had been frightful for her, and her expiation had 
already begun with the depression and her confinement to the 
institution. 

In many cases in psychiatry, the patient who comes to us has a 
story that is not told, and which as a rule no one knows of. To my 
mind, therapy only really begins after the investigation of that wholly 
personal story. It is the patient's secret, the rock against which he is 
shattered. If I know his secret story, I have a key to the treatment. 
The doctor's task is to find out how to gain that knowledge. In most 
cases exploration of the conscious material is insufficient. 
Sometimes an association test can open the way; so can the 
interpretation of dreams, or long and patient human contact with the 
individual. In therapy the problem is always the whole person, never 
the symptom alone. We must ask questions which challenge the 
whole personality. 

In 1905 I became lecturer in psychiatry at the University of Zurich, 
and that same year I became senior physician at the Psychiatric 



Clinic. I held this position for four years. Then in 1 909 I had to resign 
because by this time I was simply over my head in work. In the 
course of the years I had acquired so large a private practice that I 
could no longer keep up with my tasks. However, I continued my 
professorship until the year 1913. I lectured on psychopathology, 
and, naturally, also on the foundations of Freudian psychoanalysis, 
as well as on the psychology of primitives. These were my principal 
subjects. During the first Semesters my lectures dealt chiefly with 
hypnosis, also with Janet and Flournoy. Later the problem of 
Freudian psychoanalysis moved into the foreground. 

In my courses on hypnosis I used to inquire into the personal history 
of the patients whom I presented to the students. One case I still 
remember very well. 

A middle-aged woman, apparently with a strong religious bent, 
appeared one day. She was fifty-eight years old, and came on 
crutches, led by her maid. For seventeen years she had been 
suffering from a painful paralysis of the left leg. I placed her in a 
comfortable chair and asked her for her story. She began to tell it to 
me, and how terrible it all was-the whole long tale of her illness 
came out with the greatest circumstantiality. Finally I interrupted her 
and said, "Well now, we have no more time for so much talk. I am 
now going to hypnotize you." 

I had scarcely said the words when she closed her eyes and fell into 
a profound trance-without any hypnosis at all! I wondered at this, 
but did not disturb her. She went on talking without pause, and 
related the most remarkable dreams- dreams that represented a 
fairly deep experience of the unconscious. This, however, I did not 
understand until years later., At the time I assumed she was in a 
kind of delirium. The situation was gradually growing rather 
uncomfortable for me. Here were twenty students present, to whom I 
was going to demonstrate hypnosis! 



After half an hour of this, I wanted to awaken the patient again. She 
would not wake up. I became alarmed; it occurred to me that I might 
inadvertently have probed into a latent psychosis. It took some ten 
minutes before I succeeded in waking her. All the while I dared not 
let the students observe my nervousness. When the woman came 
to, she was giddy and confused. I said to her, "I am the doctor, and 
everything is all right." Whereupon she cried out, "But I am curedl" 
threw away her crutches, and was able to walk. Flushed with 
embarrassment, I said to the students, "Now you've seen what can 
be done with hypnosisl" In fact I had not the slightest idea what had 
happened. 

That was one of the experiences that prompted me to abandon 
hypnosis. I could not understand what had really happened, but the 
woman was in fact cured, and departed in the best of spirits. I 
asked her to let me hear from her, since I counted on a relapse in 
twenty-four hours at the latest. But her pains did not recur in spite of 
my skepticism, I had to accept the fact of her cure! 

At the first lecture of the summer semester next year, she 
reappeared. This time she complained of violent pains in the back 
which had, she said, begun only recently. Naturally, I asked myself 
whether there was some connection with the resumption of my 
lectures. Perhaps she had read the announcement of the lecture in 
the newspaper. I asked her when the pain had started, and what 
had caused it. She could not recall that anything had happened to 
her at any specitic time nor could she offer the slightest explanation. 
Finally I elicited the fact that the pains had actually begun on the day 
and at the very hour she saw the announcement in the newspaper. 
That continued my guess, but I still did not see how the miraculous 
cure had come about. I hypnotized her once more-that is to say, 
she again fell spontaneously into a trance-and afterward the pain 
was gone. 



This time I kept her after the lecture in order to find out more about 
her life. It turned out that she had a feeble-minded son who was in 
my department in the hospital. I knew nothing about this because 
she bore her second husband's name and the son was a child of 
her first marriage. He was her only child. Naturally, she had hoped 
for a talented and successful son, and it had been a terrible blow 
when he became mentally ill at an early age. At that time I was still a 
young doctor, and represented everything she had hoped her son 
might become. Her ambitious longing to be the mother of a hero 
therefore fastened upon me. She adopted me as her son, and 
proclaimed her miraculous cure far and wide. 

In actual fact she was responsible for my local fame as a wizard, 
and since the story soon got around, I was indebted to her for my 
first private patients. My psychotherapeutic practice began with a 
mother's putting me in the place of her mentally ill son! Naturally I 
explained the whole matter to her, in all its ramifications. She took it 
very well, and did not again suffer a relapse. 

That was my first real therapeutic experience-l might say: my first 
analysis. I distinctly recall my talk with the old lady. She was 
intelligent, and exceedingly grateful that I had taken her seriously 
and displayed concern for her fate and that of her son. This had 
helped her. 

In the beginning I employed hypnosis in my private practice also, 
but I soon gave it up because in using it one is only groping in the 
dark. One never knows how long an improvement or a cure will last, 
and I always had compunctions about working in such uncertainty. 
Nor was I fond of deciding on my own what the patient ought to do. I 
was much more concerned to learn from the patient himself where 
his natural bent would lead him. In order to find that out, careful 
analysis of dreams and of other manifestations of the unconscious 



was necessary. 

During the years 1904-5 I set up a laboratory for experimental 
psychopathology at the Psychiatric Clinic. I had a number of 
students there with whom I investigated psychic reactions 
(i.e. .associations). Franz Riklin, Sr., was my collaborator. Ludwig - 
Binswanger was currently writing his doctoral dissertation on the 
association experiment in connection with the psychogalvanic 
effect, and I wrote my paper "On the Psychological Diagnosis of 
Facts." There were also a number of Americans among our 
associates, including Frederick Peterson and Charles Ricksher. 
Their papers were published in American journals. It was these 
association studies which later, in 1909, procured me my invitation 
to Clark University; I was asked to lecture on my work. 
Simultaneously, and independently of me, Freud was invited. The 
degree of Doctor of Laws honoris causa was bestowed on both of 
us. 

The association experiment and the psychogalvanic experiment 
were chiefly responsible for my reputation in America. Very soon 
many patients from that country were coming to me. I remember 
well one of the first cases. An American colleague sent me a 
patient. The accompanying diagnosis read "alcoholic 
neurasthenia." The prognosis called him "incurable." My colleague 
had therefore taken the precaution of advising the patient to see 
also a certain neurological authority in Berlin, for he expected that 
my attempt at therapy would lead to nothing. The patient came for 
consultation, and after I had talked a little with him I saw that the 
man had an ordinary neurosis, of whose psychic origins he had no 
inkling. I made an association test and discovered that he was 
suffering from the effects of a formidable mother complex. He came 
from a rich and respected family, had a likeable wife and no cares- 
externally speaking. Only he drank too much. The drinking was a 
desperate attempt to narcotize himself, to forget his oppressive 



situation. Naturally, it did not help. 

His mother was the owner of a large company, and the unusually 
talented son occupied a leading post in the firm. He really should 
long since have escaped from his oppressive subordination to his 
mother, but he could not summon up the resolution to throw up his 
excellent position. Thus he remained chained to his mother, who 
had installed him in the business. Whenever he was with her, or had 
to submit to her interference with his work, he would start drinking in 
order to stupefy or discharge his emotions. A part of him did not 
really want to leave the comfortably warm nest, and against his own 
instincts he was allowing himself to be seduced by wealth and 
comfort. After brief treatment he stopped drinking, and considered 
himself cured. But I told him, "I do not guarantee that you will not 
relapse into the same state if you return to your former situation" He 
did not believe me, and returned home to America in fine fettle. 

As soon as he was back under his mother's influence, the drinking 
began again. Thereupon I was called by her to a consultation during 
her stay in Switzerland. She was an intelligent woman, but was a 
real "power devil." I saw what the son had to contend with, and 
realized that he did not have the strength to resist. Physically, too, 
he was rather delicate and no match for his mother. I therefore 
decided upon an act of force majeure. Behind his back I gave his 
mother a medical certificate to the effect that her son's alcoholism 
rendered him incapable of fululling the requirements of his job. I 
recommended his discharge. This advice was followed-and the 
son, of course, was furious with me. 

Here I had done something which normally would be considered 
unethical for a medical man. But I knew that for the patient's sake I 
had had to take this step. 

His further development? Separated from his mother, his own 



personality was able to unfold. He made a brilliant career-in spite 
of, or rather just because of the strong horse pill I had given him. His 
wife was grateful to me, for her husband had not only overcome his 
alcoholism, but had also struck out on his own individual path with 
the greatest success. Nevertheless, for years I had a guilty 
conscience about this patient because I had made out that 
certificate behind his back, though I was certain that only such an 
act could free him. And indeed, once his liberation was 
accomplished, the neurosis disappeared. 

In my practice I was constantly impressed by the way the human 
psyche reacts to a crime committed unconsciously. After all, that 
yonmg woman was initially not aware that she had killed her child. 
And yet she had fallen into a condition that appeared to be the 
expression of extreme consciousness of guilt. 

I once had a similar case which I have never forgotten. A lady came 
to my office. She refused to give her name, said it did not matter, 
since she wished to have only the one consultation. It was apparent 
that she belonged to the upper levels of society. She had been a 
doctor, she said. What she had to communicate to me was a 
confession; some twenty years ago she had committed a murder 
out of jealousy. She had poisoned her best friend because she 
wanted to marry the friend's husband. She had thought that if the 
murder was not discovered, it would not disturb her. She wanted to 
marry the husband, and the simplest way was to eliminate her 
friend. Moral considerations were of no importance to her, she 
thought. 

The consequences? She had in fact married the man, but he died 
soon afterward, relatively young. During the following years a 
number of strange things happened. The daughter of this marriage 
endeavored to get away from her as soon as she was grown up. 
She married young and vanished from view, drew farther and 



farther away, and ultimately the mother lost all contact with her. 

This lady was a passionate horsewoman and owned several riding 
horses of which she was extremely fond. One day she discovered 
that the horses were beginning to grow nervous under her. Even her 
favorite shied and threw her. Finally she had to give up riding. 
Thereafter she clung to her dogs. She owned an unusually beautiful 
wolfhound to which she was greatly attached. As chance would 
have it, this very dog was stricken with paralysis. With that, her cup 
was full; she felt that she was morally done for. She had to confess, 
and for this purpose she came to me. She was a murderess, but on 
top of that she had also murdered herself. For one who commits 
such a crime destroys his own soul. The murderer has already 
passed sentence on himself. If someone has committed a crime 
and is caught, he suffers judicial punishment. If he has done it 
secretly, without moral consciousness of it, and remains 
undiscovered, the punishment can nevertheless be visited upon 
him, as our case shows. It comes out in the end. Sometimes it 
seems as if even animals and plants "know" it. 

As a result of the murder, the woman was plunged into unbearable 
loneliness. She had even become alienated from animals. And in 
order to shake off this loneliness, she had made me share her 
knowledge. She had to have someone who was not a murderer to 
share the secret. She wanted to find a person who could accept her 
confession without prejudice, for by so doing she would achieve 
once more something resembling a relationship to humanity. And 
the person would have to be a doctor rather than a professional 
confessor. She would have suspected a priest of listening to her 
because of his office, and of not accepting the facts for their own 
sake but for the purpose of moral judgment. She had seen people 
and animals turn away from her, and had been so struck by this 
silent verdict that she could not have endured any further 
condemnation. 



I never found out who she was, nor do I have any proof that her story 
was true. Sometimes I have asked myself what might have become 
of her. For that was by no means the end of her iourney. Perhaps 
she was driven ultimately to suicide. I cannot Imagine how she could 
have gone on living in that utter loneliness. 

Clinical diagnoses are important, since they give the doctor a 
certain orientation; but they do not help the patient. The crucial thing 
is the story. For it alone shows the human background and the 
human suffering, and only at that point can the doctor's therapy 
begin to operate. A case demonstrated this to me most cogently[3] 

The case concerned an old patient in the women's ward. She was 
about seventy-five, and had been bedridden for forty years. Almost 
fifty years ago she had entered the institution, but there was no one 
left who could recall her admittance; everyone who had been there 
had since died. Only one head nurse, who had been working at the 
institution for thirty-five years, still remembered something of the 
patient's story. The old woman could not speak, and could only take 
fluid or semi-fluid nourishment. She ate with her fingers, letting the 
food drip off them into her mouth. Sometimes it would take her 
almost two hours to consume a cup of milk. When not eating, she 
made curious rhythmic motions with her hands and arms. I did not 
understand what they meant. I was profoundly impressed by the 
degree of destruction that can be wrought by mental disease, but 
saw no possible explanation. At the clinical lectures she used to be 
presented as a catatonic form of dementia praecox, but that meant 
nothing to me, for these words did not contribute in the slightest to 
an understanding of the significance and origin of those curious 
gestures. 

The impression this case made upon me typifies my reaction to the 
psychiatry of the period. When I became an assistant, I had the 



feeling that I understood nothing whatsoever about what psychiatry 
purported to be. I felt extremely uncomfortable beside my chief and 
my colleagues, who assumed such airs of certainty while I was 
groping perplexedly in the dark. For I regarded the main task of 
psychiatry as understanding the things that were taking place within 
the sick mind, and as yet I knew nothing about these things. Here I 
was engaged in a profession in which I did not know my way about! 

Late one evening, as I was walking through the ward, I saw the old 
woman still making her mysterious movements, and 

3 Cf. The Psychogenesis of Mental Disease (CW 3), pp. 171-72. 

again asked myself, "Why must this be?" Thereupon I went to our 
old head nurse and asked whether the patient had always been that 
way. "Yes," she replied. "But my predecessor told me she used to 
make shoes." I then checked through her yellowing case history 
once more, and sure enough, there was a note to the effect that she 
was in the habit of making cobbler's motions. In the past 
shoemakers used to hold shoes between their knees and draw the 
threads through the leather with precisely such movements. (Village 
cobblers can still be seen doing this today.) When the patient died 
shortly afterward, her elder brother came to the funeral. "Why did 
your sister lose her sanity?" I asked him. He told me that she had 
been in love with a shoemalcer who for some reason had not 
wanted to marry her, and that when he finally rejected her she had 
"gone off." The shoemaker movements indicated an identification 
with her sweetheart which had lasted until her death. That case 
gave me my first inkling of the psychic origins of dementia praecox. 
Henceforth I devoted all my attention to the meaningful connections 
in a psychosis. 

Another patient's story revealed to me the psychological 
background of psychosis and, above all, of the "senseless" 



delusions. From this case I was able for the first time to understand 
the language of schizophrenics, which had hitherto been regarded 
as meaningless. The patient was Babette S., whose story I have 
published elsewhere. In 1 908 I delivered a lecture on her in the town 
hall of Zurich. 

She came out of the Old Town of Zurich, out of narrow, dirty streets 
where she had been born in poverty-stricken circumstances and 
had grown up in a mean environment. Her sister was a prostitute, 
her father a drunkard. At the age of thirty-nine she succumbed to a 
paranoid form of dementia praecox, with characteristic 
megalomania. When I saw her, she had been in the institution for 
twenty years. She had served as an object lesson to hundreds of 
medical students. In her they had seen the uncanny process of 
psychic disintegration; she was a classic 

4 CF. "The Psychology of Dementia Precox" and "The Content of the 
Psychoses," in The Psychogenesis of Mental Disease (CW 3). 

case. Babette was completely demented and given to saying the 
craziest things which made no sense at all. I tried with all my might 
to understand the content of her abstruse utterances. For example, 
she would say, "I am the Lorelei"; the reason for that was that the 
doctors, when trying to understand her case, would always say, "Ich 
weiss nicht, was soil es bedeuten." " Or she would wail, "I am 
Socrates' deputy." That, as I discovered, was intended to mean: "I 
am unjustly accused like Socrates." Absurd outbursts like: "I am the 
double polytechnic irreplaceable," or, "I am plum cake on a corn- 
meal bottom," "I am Germania and Helvetia of exclusively sweet 
butter," "Naples and I must supply the world with noodles," signified 
an increase in her self-valuation, that is to say, a compensation for 
inferiority feelings. 

My preoccupation with Babette and other such cases convinced me 



that much of what we had hitherto regarded as senseless was not 
as crazy as it seemed. More than once I have seen that even with 
such patients there remains in the background a personality which 
must be called normal. It stands looking on, so to speak. 
Occasionally, too, this personality- usually by way of voices or 
dreams-can make altogether sensible remarks and objections. It 
can even, when physical illness ensues, move into the foreground 
again and make the patient, seem almost normal. 

I once had to treat a schizophrenic old woman who showed me very 
distinctly the "normal" personality in the background. This was a 
case which could not be cured, only cared for. Every physician, after 
all, has patients whom he cannot hope to cure, for whom he can 
only smooth the path to death. She heard voices which were 
distributed throughout her entire body, and a voice in the middle of 
the thorax was "God's voice." 

"We must rely on that voice," I said to her, and was astonished at 
my own courage. As a rule this voice made very sensible remarks, 
and with its aid I managed very well with the patient. Once the voice 
said, "Let him test you on the Bible!" She brought along an old, 
tattered, much-read Bible, and at each visit I had to assign her a 
chapter to read. The next time I had to test her on it. I did this for 
about seven years, once every two 

5 "I know not what it means": the first line of Heine's famous poem 
"Die Lorelei" 

weeks. At first I felt very odd in this role, but after a while I realized 
what the lessons signified. In this way her attention was kept alert, 
so that she did not sink deeper into the disintegrating dream. The 
result was that after some six years the voices which had formerly 
been everywhere had retired to the left half of her body, while the 
right half was completely free of them. Nor had the intensity of the 



phenomena been doubled on the left side; it was much the same as 
in the past. Hence it must be concluded that the patient was cured- 
at least halfway. That was an unexpected success, for I would not 
have imagined that these memory exercises could have a 
therapeutic effect. 

Through my work with the patients I realized that paranoid ideas 
and hallucinations contain a germ of meaning. A personality, a life 
history, a pattern of hopes and desires lie behind the psychosis. 
The fault is ours if we do not understand them. It dawned upon me 
then for the first time that a general psychology of the personality 
lies concealed within psychosis, and that even here we come upon 
the old human conflicts. Although patients may appear dull and 
apathetic, or totally imbecilic, there is more going on in their minds, 
and more that is meaningful, than there seems to be. At bottom we 
discover nothing new and unknown in the mentally ill; rather, we 
encounter the substratum of our own natures. 

It was always astounding to me that psychiatry should have taken so 
long to look into the content of the psychoses. No one concerned 
himself with the meaning of fantasies, or thought to ask why this 
patient had one kind of fantasy, another an altogether different one; 
or what it signified when, for instance, a patient had the fantasy of 
being persecuted by the Jesuits, or when another imagined that the 
Jews wanted to poison him, or a third was convinced that the police 
were after him. Such questions seemed altogether uninteresting to 
doctors of those days. The fantasies were simply lumped together 
under some generic name as, for instance, "ideas of persecution." 
It seems equally odd to me that my investigations of that time are 
almost forgotten today. Already at the beginning of the century I 
treated Schizophrenia psychotherapeutically. That method, 
therefore, is not something that has only just been discovered. It did, 
however, take a long time before people began to introduce 
psychology into psychiatry. 



While I was still at the clinic, I had to be most circumspect about 
treating my schizophrenic patients, or I would have been accused of 
woolgathering. Schizophrenia was considered incurable. If one did 
achieve some improvement with a case of schizophrenia, the 
answer was that it had not been real schizophrenia. When Freud 
visited me in Zurich in 1908, I demonstrated the case of Babette to 
him. Afterward he said to me, "You know, Jung, what you have 
found out about this patient is certainly interesting. But how in the 
world were you able to bear spending hours and days with this 
phenomenally ugly female?" I must have given him a rather dashed 
look, for this idea had never occurred to me. In a way I regarded the 
woman as a pleasant old creature because she had such lovely 
delusions and said such interesting things. And after all, even in her 
insanity, the human being emerged from a cloud of grotesque 
nonsense. Therapeutically, nothing was accomplished with Babette; 
she had been sick for too long. But I have seen other cases in which 
this kind of attentive entering into the personality of the patient 
produced a lasting therapeutic effect. 

Regarding them from the outside, all we see of the mentally ill is 
their tragic destruction, rarely the life of that side of the psyche 
which is turned away from us. Outward appearances are frequently 
deceptive, as I discovered to my astonishment in the case of a 
young catatonic patient. She was eighteen years old, and came 
from a cultivated family. At the age of fifteen she had been seduced 
by her brother and abused by a schoolmate. From her sixteenth 
year on, she retreated into isolation. She concealed herself from 
people, and ultimately the only emotional relationship left to her was 
one with a vicious watch dog which belonged to another family, and 
which she tried to win over. She grew steadily odder, and at 
seventeen was taken to the mental hospital, where she spent a year 
and a half. She heard voices, refused food, and was completely 



mutistic (i.e., no long spoke). When I first saw her she was in a 
typical catatonic state. 

In the course of many weeks I succeeded, very gradually, in 
persuading her to speak. After overcoming many resistances, she 
told me that she had lived on the moon. The moon, it seemed, was 
inhabited, but at first she had seen only men. They had at once 
taken her with them and deposited her in a sublunar dwelling where 
their children and wives were kept. For on the high mountains of the 
moon there lived a vampire who kidnapped and killed the women 
and children, so that the moon people were threatened with 
extinction. That was the reason for the sublunar existence of the 
feminine half of the population. 

My patient made up her mind to do something for the moon people, 
and planned to destroy the vampire. After long preparations, she 
waited for the vampire on the platform of a tower which had been 
erected for this purpose. After a number of nights she at last saw 
the monster approaching from afar, winging his way toward her like 
a great black bird. She took her long sacrificial knife, concealed it 
in her gown, and waited for the vampire's arrival. Suddenly he stood 
before her. He had several pairs of wings. His face and entire figure 
were covered by them, so that she could see nothing but his 
feathers. Wonder-struck, she was seized by curiosity to find out 
what he really looked like. She approached, hand on the knife. 
Suddenly the wings opened and a man of unearthly beauty stood 
before her. He enclosed her in his winged arms with an iron grip, so 
that she could no longer wield the knife. In any case she was so 
spellbound by the vampire's look that she would not have been 
capable of striking. He raised her from the platform and flew off with 
her. 

After this revelation she was once again able to speak without 
inhibition, and now her resistances emerged. It seemed that I had 



stopped her return to the moon; she could no longer escape from 
the earth. This world was not beautiful, she said, but the moon was 
beautiful, and life there was rich in meaning. Sometime later she 
suffered a relapse into her catatonia, and I had to have her taken to 
a sanatorium. For a while she was violently insane. 

When she was discharged after some two months, it was once 
again possible to talk with her. Gradually she came to see that life 
on earth was unavoidable. Desperately, she fought against this 
conclusion and its consequences, and had to be sent back to the 
sanatorium. Once I visited her in her cell and said to her, "All this 
won't do you any good; you cannot return to the moon!" She took 
this in silence and with an appearance of utter apathy. This time she 
was released after a short stay and resigned herself to her fate. 

For a while she took a job as nurse in a sanatorium. There was an 
assistant doctor there who made a somewhat rash approach to her. 
She responded with a revolver shot. Luckily, the man was only 
slightly wounded. But the incident revealed that she went about with 
a revolver all the time. Once before, she had turned up with a 
loaded gun. During the last interview, at the end of the treatment, 
she gave it to me. When I asked in amazement what she was doing 
with it, she replied, "I would have shot you down if you had failed 
me!" 

When the excitement over the shooting had subsided, she returned 
to her native town. She married, had several children, and survived 
two world wars in the East, without ever again suffering a relapse. 

What can be said by way of interpretation of these fantasies? As a 
result of the incest to which she had been subjected as a girl, she 
felt humiliated in the eyes of the world, but elevated the realm of 
fantasy. She had been transported into a mythic- realm; for incest is 
traditionally a prerogative of royalty and divinities. The 



consequence was complete alienation from the world, a state of 
psychosis. She became "extramundane," as it were, and lost 
contact with humanity. She plunged into cosmic distances, into 
outer space, where she met with the winged demon. As is the rule 
with such things, she projected his figure onto me during the 
treatment. Thus I was automatically threatened with death, as was 
everyone who might have persuade her to return to normal human 
life. By telling me her story she had in a sense betrayed the demon 
and attached herself to earthly human being. Hence she was able to 
return to life and even to marry. 

Thereafter I regarded the sufferings of the mentally ill in different 
light. For I had gained insight into the richness an importance of 
their inner experience. 

I am often asked about my psychotherapeutic or analytic method. I 
cannot reply unequivocally to the question. Therapy is different in 
every case. When a doctor tells me that he adheres strictly to this or 
that method, I have my doubts about his therapeutic effect. So much 
is said in the literature about the resistance of the patient that it 
would almost seem as if the doctor were trying to put something 
over on him, whereas the cure ought to grow naturally out of the 
patient himself. Psycho- therapy and analysis are as varied as are 
human individuals. I treat every patient as individually as possible, 
because the solution of the problem is always an individual one. 
Universal rules can be postulated only with a grain of salt. A 
psychological truth is valid only if it can be reversed. A solution 
which would be out of the question for me may be just the right one 
for someone else. " 

Naturally, a doctor must be familiar with the so-called "methods." 
But he must guard against falling into any specific, routine 
approach. In general one must guard against theoretical 
assumptions. Today they may be valid, tomorrow it may be the turn 



of other assumptions. In my analyses they play no part. I am 
unsystematic very much by intention. To my mind, in dealing with 
individuals, only individual understanding will do. We need a 
different language for every patient. In one analysis I can be heard 
talking the Adlerian dialect, in another the Freudian. 

The crucial point is that I confront the patient as one human being to 
another. Analysis is a dialogue demanding two partners. Analyst 
and patient sit facing one another, eye to eye; the doctor has 
something to say, but so has the patient. 

Since the essence of psychotherapy is not the application of a 
method, psychiatric study alone does not suffice. I myself had to 
work for a very long time before I possessed the equipment for 
psychotherapy. As early as 1 909, I realized that I could not treat 
latent psychoses if I did not understand their symbolism. It was then 
that I began to study mythology. 

With cultivated and intelligent patients the psychiatrist needs more 
than merely professional knowledge. He must understand, aside 
from all theoretical assumptions, what really motivates the patient. 
Otherwise he stirs up unnecessary resistances. What counts, after 
all, is not whether a theory is corroborated, but whether the patient 
grasps himself as an individual. This, however, is not possible 
without reference to the collective views, concerning which the 
doctor ought to be informed. For that, mere medical training does 
not suffice, for the horizon of the human psyche embraces infinitely 
more than the limited purview of the doctor's consulting room. 

The psyche is distinctly more complicated and inaccessible than 
the body. It is, so to speak, the half of the world which comes into 
existence only when we become conscious of it. For that reason the 
psyche is not only a personal but a world problem, and the 
psychiatrist has to deal with an entire world. 



Nowadays we can see as never before that the peril which 
threatens all of us comes not from nature, but from man, from the 
psyches of the individual and the mass. The psychic aberration of 
man is the danger. Everything depends upon whether or not our 
psyche functions properly. If certain persons lose their heads 
nowadays, a hydrogen bomb will go off. 

The psychotherapist, however, must understand not only the patient; 
it is equally important that he should understand himself. For that 
reason the sine quo non is the analysis of the analyst, what is called 
the training analysis. The patient's treatment begins with the doctor, 
so to speak. Only if the doctor knows how to cope with himself and 
his own problems will he be able to teach the patient to do the 
same. Only then. In the training analysis the doctor must learn to 
know his own psyche; and to take it seriously. If he cannot do that, 
the patient will not learn either. He will lose a portion of his psyche, 
just as the doctor has lost that portion of his psyche which he has 
not learned to understand. It is not enough, therefore, for the training 
analysis to consist in acquiring a system of concepts. The 
analysand must realize that it concerns himself, that the training 
analysis is a bit of real life and is not a method which can be 
learned by rote. The student who does not grasp that fact in his own 
training analysis will have to pay dearly for the failure later on. 

Though there is treatment known as "minor psychotherapy," in any 
thoroughgoing analysis the whole personality of both patient and 
doctor is called into play. There are many cases which the doctor 
cannot cure without committing himself. When important matters 
are at stake, it makes all the difference whether the doctor sees 
himself as a part of the drama, or cloaks himself in his authority. In 
the great crises of life, in the supreme moments when to be or not 
to be is the question, little tricks of suggestion do not help. Then the 
doctor's whole being is challenged. 



The therapist must at all times keep watch over himself, over the 
way he is reacting to his patient. For we do not react only with our 
consciousness. Also we must always be asking ourselves: How is 
our unconscious experiencing this situation? We must therefore 
observe our dreams, pay the closest attention and study ourselves 
just as carefully as we do the patient. Otherwise the entire treatment 
may go off the rails. I shall give a single example of this. 

I once had a patient, a highly intelligent woman, who for various 
reasons aroused my doubts. At first the analysis went very well, but 
after a while I began to feel that I was no longer getting at the 
correct interpretation of her dreams, and I thought I also noticed an 
increasing shallowness in our dialogue. I therefore decided to talk 
with my patient about this, since it had of course not escaped her 
that something was going wrong. The night before I was to speak 
with her, I had the following dream. 

I was walking down a highway through a valley in late-afternoon 
sunlight. To my right was a steep hill. At its top stood a castle, and 
on the highest tower there was a woman sitting on a kind of 
balustrade. In order to see her properly, I had to bend my head far 
back. I awoke with a crick in the back of my neck. Even in the 
dream I had recognized the woman as my patient. 

The interpretation was immediately apparent to me. If in the dream I 
had to look up at the patient in this fashion, in reality I had probably 
been looking down on her. Dreams are, after all, compensations for 
the conscious attitude. I told her of the dream and my interpretation. 
This produced an immediate change in the situation, and the 
treatment once more began to move forward. 

As a doctor I constantly have to ask myself what kind of message 
the patient is bringing me. What does he mean to me? If he means 



nothing, I have no point of attack. The doctor is effective only when 
he himself is affected. "Only the wounded physician heals." But 
when the doctor wears his personality like a coat of armor, he has 
no effect. I take my patients seriously. Perhaps I am confronted with 
a problem just as much as they. It often happens that the patient is 
exactly the right plaster for the doctor's sore spot. Because this is 
so, duffcult situations can arise for the doctor too-or rather, 
especially for the doctor. 

Every therapist ought to have a control by some third person, so 
that he remains open to another point of view. Even the pope has a 
confessor. I always advise analysts: "Have a father confessor, or a 
mother confessor!" Women are particularly gifted for playing such a 
part. They often have excellent intuition and a trenchant critical 
insight, and can see what men have up their sleeves, at times see 
also into men's anima intrigues. They see aspects that the man 
does not see. That is why no woman has ever been convinced that 
her husband is a superman! 

It is understandable that a person should undergo analysis if he has 
a neurosis; but if he feels he is normal, he is under no compulsion to 
do so. Yet I can assure you, I have had some astonishing 
experiences with so-called "normality." Once I encountered an 
entirely "normal" pupil. He was a doctor, and came to me with the 
best recommendations from an old colleague. He had been his 
assistant and had later taken over practice. Now he had a normal 
practice, normal success, a normal wife, normal children, lived in a 
normal little house in a normal little town, had a normal income and 
probably a normal, diet. He wanted to be an analyst. I said to him, 
"Do you know what that means? It means that you must first learn to 
know yourself. You yourself are the instrument. If you are not right, 
how can the patient be made right? If you are not convinced, how 
can you convince him? You yourself must be the real stuff. If you are 
not, God help you! Then you will lead patients astray. Therefore you 



must first accept an analysis of yourself. 

That was all right, the man said, but almost at once followed this 
with: "I have no problems to tell you about." That should have been a 
warning to me. I said, "Very well, then we can examine your 
dreams? "I have no dreams," he said. "You will soon have some," I 
responded. Anyone else would probably have dreamt that very 
night. But he was unable to recall any dreams. So it went on for 
about two weeks, and I began to feel rather uneasy about the whole 
affair. 

At last an impressive dream turned up. I am going to tell it because 
it shows how important it is, in practical psychiatry, to understand 
dreams. He dreamt that he was traveling by railroad. The train had 
a two-hour stop in a certain city. Since he did not know the city and 
wanted to see something of it, he set out toward the city center. 
There he found a medieval building, probably the town hall, and 
went into it. He wandered down long corridors and came upon 
handsome rooms, their walls lined with old paintings and line 
tapestries. Precious old objects stood about. Suddenly he saw that 
it had grown darker, and the sun had set. He thought, I must get 
back to the railroad station. At this moment he discovered that he 
was lost, and no longer knew where the exit was. He started in 
alarm, and simultaneously realized that he had not met a single 
person in this building. He began to feel uneasy, and quickened his 
pace, hoping to run into someone. But he met no one. Then he 
came to a large door, and thought with relief: That is the exit. He 
opened the door and discovered that he had stumbled upon a 
gigantic room. It was so huge and dark that he could not even see 
the opposite wall. Profoundly alarmed, the dreamer ran across the 
great, empty room, hoping to find the exit on the other side. Then he 
saw-precisely in the middle of the room-something white on the 
floor. As he approached he discovered that it was an idiot child of 



about two years old. It was sitting on a chamber pot and had 
smeared itself with feces. At that moment he awoke with a cry, in a 
state of panic. 

I knew all I needed to know-here was a latent psychosis! I must say 
I sweated as I tried to lead him out of that dream. I had to represent 
it to him as something quite innocuous, and gloss over all the 
perilous details. 

What the dream says is approximately this: the trip on which he sets 
out is the trip to Zurich. He remains there, however, for only a short 
time. The child in the center of the room is himself as a two-year-old 
child. In small children, such uncouth behavior is somewhat unusual, 
but still possible. They may be intrigued by their feces, which are 
colored and have an odd smell. Raised in a city environment, and 
possibly along strict lines, a child might easily be guilty of such a 
failing. 

But the dreamer, the doctor, was no child; he was a grown man. 
And therefore the dream image in the center of the room is a 
sinister symbol. When he told me the dream, I realized that his 
normality was a compensation. I had caught him in the nick of time, 
for the latent psychosis was within a hair's breadth of breaking out 
and becoming manifest. This had to be prevented. Finally, with the 
aid of one of his other dreams, I succeeded in finding an 
acceptable pretext for ending the training analysis. We were both of 
us very glad to stop. I had not informed him of my diagnosis, but he 
had probably become aware that he was on the verge of a fatal 
panic, for he had a dream in which he was being pursued by a 
dangerous maniac. Immediately afterward he returned home. He 
never again stirred up the unconscious. His emphatic normality 
reflected a personality which would not have been developed but 
simply shattered by a confrontation with the unconscious. These 
latent psychoses are the betes noires of psychotherapists, since 



they are often very difficult to recognize. 

With this, we come to the question of lay analysis. I am in favor of 
non-medical men studying psychotherapy and practicing it; but in 
dealing with latent psychoses there is the risk of their making 
dangerous mistakes. Therefore I favor laymen working as analysts, 
but under the guidance of a professional physician. As soon as a 
lay analyst feels the slightest bit uncertain, he ought to consult his 
mentor. Even for doctors it is difficult to recognize and treat a latent 
schizophrenia; all the more so for laymen. But I have repeatedly 
found that laymen who have practiced psychotherapy for years, and 
who have themselves been in analysis, are shrewd and capable. 
Moreover there are not enough doctors practicing psychotherapy. 
For such practice, long and thorough training is necessary, and a 
wide culture which very few possess. 

The relationship between doctor and patient, especially when a 
transference on the part of the patient occurs, or a more or less 
unconscious identification of doctor and patient, can lead to 
parapsychological phenomena. I have frequently run into this. One 
such case which was particularly impressive was that of a patient 
whom I had pulled out of a psychogenic depression. He went back 
home and married; but I did not care for his wife. The first time I saw 
her, I had an uneasy feeling. Her husband was grateful to me, and I 
observed that I was a thorn in her side because of my influence over 
him. It frequently happens that women who do not really love their 
husbands are jealous and destroy their friendships. They want the 
husband to belong entirely to them because they themselves do not 
belong to him. The kernel of all jealousy is lack of love. 

The wife's attitude placed a tremendous burden on the patient 
which he was incapable of coping with. Under its pressure he 
relapsed, after a year of marriage, into a new depression. 
Foreseeing this possibility, I had arranged with him that he was to 



get in touch with me at once if he observed his spirits sinking. He 
neglected to do so, partly because of his wife, who scoffed at his 
moods. I heard not a word from him. 

At that time I had to deliver a lecture in B. I returned to my hotel 
around midnight. I sat with some friends for a while after the lecture, 
then went to bed, but I lay awake for a long time. At about two 
o'clock-l must have just fallen asleep-l awoke with a start, and had 
the feeling that someone had come into the room; I even had the 
impression that the door had been hastily opened. I instantly turned 
on the light, but there was nothing. Someone might have mistaken 
the door, 1 thought, and I looked into the corridor. But it was still as 
death. "Odd," I thought, "someone did come into the room!" Then I 
tried to recall exactly what had happened, and it occurred to me that 
I had been awakened by a feeling of dull pain, as though something 
had struck my forehead and then the back of my skull. The following 
day I received a telegram saying that my patient had committed 
suicide. He had shot himself. Later, I learned that the bullet had 
come to rest in the back wall of the skull. This experience was a 
genuine synchronistic phenomenon such as is quite often observed 
in connection with an archetypal situation— in this case, death. By 
means of a relativization of time and space in the unconscious it 
could well be that I had perceived something which in reality was 
taking place elsewhere. The collective unconscious is common to 
all; it is the foundation of what the ancients called the "sympathy of 
all things." In this case the unconscious had knowledge of my 
patient's condition. All that evening, in fact, 1 had felt curiously 
restive and nervous, very much in contrast to my usual mood. 

I never try to convert a patient to anything, and never exercise any 
compulsion. What matters most to me is that the patient should 
reach his own view of things. Under my treatment a pagan 
becomes a pagan and a Christian a Christian, a Jew a Jew, 
according to what his destiny prescribes for him. 



I well recall the case of a Jewish woman who had lost her faith. It 
began with a dream of mine in which a young girl, unknown to me, 
came to me as a patient. She outlined her case to me, and while 
she was talking, I thought, "I don't understand her at all. I don't 
understand what it is all about." But suddenly it occurred to me that 
she must have an unusual father complex. That was the dream. 

For the next day I had down in my appointment book a consultation 
for four o'clock. A young woman appeared. She was Jewish, 
daughter of a wealthy banker, pretty, chic, and highly intelligent. She 
had already undergone an analysis, but the doctor acquired a 
transference to her and finally begged her not to come to him any 
more, for if she did, it would mean the destruction of his marriage. 

The girl had been suffering for years from a severe anxiety 
neurosis, which this experience naturally worsened. I began with an 
anamnesis, but could discover nothing special. She was well- 
adapted, Westernized Jewess, enlightened down to her bones. At 
first I could not understand what her trouble was. Suddenly my 
dream occurred to me, and I thought, "Good Lord, so this is the little 
girl of my dream." Since, however, I could detect not a trace of a 
father complex in her, I asked her, as I am in the habit of doing in 
such cases, about her grandfather. For a brief moment she closed 
her eyes, and I realized at once that here lay the heart of the 
problem. I therefore asked her to tell me about this grandfather, and 
learned that he had been a rabbi and had belonged to a Jewish 
sect. "Do you mean the Chassidim?" I asked. She said yes. I 
pursued my questioning. "If he was a rabbi, was he by any chance a 
zaddik?" "Yes," she replied, "it is said that he was a kind of saint 
and also possessed second sight. But that is all nonsense. There is 
no such thing!" 

With that I had concluded the anamnesis and understood the history 



of her neurosis. I explained to her, "Now I am going to tell you 
something that you may not be able to accept. Your grandfather 
was a zaddik. Your father became an apostate to the Jewish faith. 
He betrayed the secret and turned his back on God. And you have 
your neurosis because the fear of God has got into you." That struck 
her like a bolt of lightning. 

The following night I had another dream. A reception was taking 
place in my house, and behold, this girl was there too. She came up 
to me and asked, "Haven't you got an umbrella? It is raining so 
hard." I actually found an umbrella, fumbled around with it to open it, 
and was on the point of giving it to her. But what happened instead? 
I handed it to her on my knees, as if she were a goddess. 

I told this dream to her, and in a week the neurosis had vanished." 
The dream had showed me that she was not just a superficial little 
girl, but that beneath the surface were the makings of a saint. She 
had no mythological ideas, and therefore the most essential feature 
of her nature could find no way to express itself. All her conscious 
activity was directed toward flirtation, clothes, and sex, because 
she knew of nothing else. She knew only the intellect and lived a 
meaningless life. In reality she was a child of God whose destiny 
was to fulfill His secret will. I had to awaken mythological and 
religious ideas in her, for she belonged to that class of human 
beings of whom spiritual activity 

6 This case is distinguished from most of Jung's cases by the brevity of the 
treatment. -A. J. 

is demanded. Thus her life took on a meaning, and no trace of the 
neurosis was left. In this case I had applied no "method," but had 
sensed the presence of the numen. My explaining this to her had 
accomplished the cure. Method did not matter here; what mattered 
was the "fear of God."[7] 



I have frequently seen people become neurotic when they content 
themselves with inadequate or wrong answers to the questions of 
life. They seek position, marriage, reputation, outward success or 
money, and remain unhappy and neurotic even when they have 
attained what they were seeking. Such people are usually confined 
within too narrow a spiritual horizon. Their has not sufficient content, 
sufficient meaning. If they are enabled to develop into more 
spacious personalities, the neurosis generally disappears. For that 
reason the idea of development was always of the highest 
importance to me. 

The majority of my patients consisted not of believers but those who 
had lost their faith. The ones who came to me were the lost sheep. 
Even in this day and age the believer has the opportunity, in his 
church, to live the "symbolic life." We need only think of the 
experience of the Mass, of baptism, of imitatio Christi, and many 
other aspects of religion. But to live and experience symbols 
presupposes a vital participation on part of the believer, and only 
too often this is lacking in people today. In the neurotic it is 
practically always lacking. In such cases we have to observe 
whether the unconscious will not spontaneously bring up symbols to 
replace what is lacking. But the question remains of whether a 
person who has symbolic dreams or visions will also be able to 
understand their meaning and take the consequences upon himself. 

There is, for example, the case of the theologian which I described 
in "Archetypes of the Collective Unconscious." [8] He had a certain 
dream which was frequently repeated. He dream that he was 
standing on a slope from which he had a beautiful 

7 Cf. The Symbolic Life, Pastoral Psychology Guild Lecture, No. Bo 
(London 1954). p- 18. 8 The Archetypes and the Collects Unconscious 
(CW 9, i), pp. 17-18. 



view of a low valley covered with dense woods. In the dream he 
knew that in the middle of the woods there was a lake, and he also 
knew that hitherto something had always prevented him from going 
there. But this time he wanted to carry out his plan. As he 
approached the lake, the atmosphere grew uncanny, and suddenly 
a light gust of wind passed over the surface of the water, which 
rippled darkly. He awoke with a cry of terror. 

At first this dream seems incomprehensible. But as a theologian 
the dreamer should have remembered the "pool" whose waters 
were stirred by a sudden wind, and in which the sick were bathed- 
the pool of Bethesda. An angel descended and touched the water, 
which thereby acquired curative powers. The light wind is the 
pneuma which bloweth where it listeth And that terrified the 
dreamer. An unseen presence is suggested, a numen that lives its 
own life and in whose presence man shudders. The dreamer was 
reluctant to accept the association with the pool of Bethesda. He 
wanted nothing of it, for such things are met with only in the Bible, or 
at most on Sunday mornings as the subjects of sermons, and have 
nothing to do with psychology. All very well to speak of the Holy 
Ghost on occasions-but it is not a phenomenon to be experienced! 

I knew that the dreamer should have overcome his fright and, as it 
were, got over his panic. But I never force the issue if a patient is 
unwilling to go the way that has been revealed to him and take the 
consequences. I do not subscribe to the facile assumption that the 
patient is blocked merely by ordinary resistances. Resistances- 
especially when they are stubborn-merit attention, for they are often 
warnings which must not be overlooked. The cure may be a poison 
that not everyone can take, or an operation which, when it is 
contraindicated, can prove fatal. 

Wherever there is a reaching down into innermost experience, into 
the nucleus of personality, most people are overcome by fright, and 



many run away. Such was the case with this theologian. I am of 
course aware that theologians are in a more difficult situation than 
others. On the one hand they are closer to religion, but on the other 
hand they are more bound by church and dogma. The risk of inner 
experience, the adventure of the spirit, is in any case alien to most 
human beings. The possibility that such experience might have 
psychic reality is anathema to them. All very well if it has a 
supernatural or at least a "historical" foundation. But psychic? Face 
to face with this question, the patient will often show an 
unsuspected but profound contempt for the psyche. 

In contemporary psychotherapy the demand is often made that the 
doctor or psychotherapist should "go along" with the patient and his 
affects. I don't consider that to be always the right course. 
Sometimes active intervention on the part of the doctor is required. 

Once a lady of the aristocracy came to me who was in the habit of 
slapping her employees-including her doctors. She suffered from a 
compulsion neurosis and had been under treatment in a 
sanatorium. Naturally, she had soon dispensed the obligatory slap 
to the head physician. In her eyes, after all, was only a superior valet 
de chambre. She was paying the bills wasn't she? This doctor sent 
her on to another institution and there the same scene was 
repeated. Since the lady was not really insane, but evidently had to 
be handled with kid gloves the hapless doctor sent her on to me. 

She was a very stately and imposing person, six feet tall-and there 
was power behind her slaps, I can tell you! She came, then, and we 
had a very good talk. Then came the moment when I had to say 
something unpleasant to her. Furious, she sprang her feet and 
threatened to slap me. I, too, jumped up, and said to her, "Very well, 
you are the lady. You hit first-ladies first! But then I hit back!" And I 
meant it. She fell back into her chair and deflated before my eyes. 
"No one has ever said that to me beforel" she protested. From that 



moment on, the therapy began to succeed. 

What this patient needed was a masculine reaction. In this case it 
would have been entirely wrong to "go along." That would have 
been worse than useless. She had a compulsion nerosis because 
she could not impose moral restraint upon herself. Such people 
must then have some other form of restraint-and along come the 
compulsive symptoms to serve the purpose. Years ago I once drew 
up statistics on the results of my treatments. I no longer recall the 
figures exactly; but, on a conservative estimate, a third of my cases 
were really cured, a third considerably improved, and a third not 
essentially influenced. But it is precisely the unimproved cases 
which are hardest to judge, because many things are not realized 
and understood by the patients until years afterward, and only then 
can they take effect. How often former patients have written to me: "I 
did not realize what it was really all about until ten years after I had 
been with you." 

I have had a few cases who ran out on me; very rarely indeed have I 
had to send a patient away. But even among them were some who 
later sent me positive reports. That is why it is often so difficult to 
draw conclusions as to the success of a treatment. 

It is obvious that in the course of his practice a doctor will come 
across people who have a great effect on him too. He meets 
personalities who, for better or worse, never stir the interest of the 
public and who nevertheless, or for that very reason, possess 
unusual qualities, or whose destiny it is to pass through 
unprecedented developments and disasters. Sometimes they are 
persons of extraordinary talents, who might well inspire another to 
give his life for them; but these talents may be implanted in so 
strangely unfavorable a psychic disposition that we cannot tell 
whether it is a question of genius or of fragmentary development. 
Frequently, too, in this unlikely soil there flower rare blossoms of the 



psyche which we would never have thought to find in the flatlands of 
society. For psychotherapy to be effective a close rapport is 
needed, so close that the doctor cannot shut his eyes to the heights 
and depths of human suffering. The rapport consists, after all, in a 
constant comparison find mutual comprehension, in the dialectical 
confrontation of two opposing psychic realities. If for some reason 
these mutual impressions do not impinge on each other, the 
psychotherapeutic process remains ineffective, and no change is 
produced. Unless both doctor and patient become a problem to 
each other, no solution is found. 

Among the so-called neurotics of our day there are a good many 
who in other ages would not have been neurotic-that is, divided 
against themselves. If they had lived in a period and in a milieu in 
which man was still linked by myth with the world of the ancestors, 
and thus with nature truly experienced and not merely seen from 
outside, they would have been spared this division with themselves. 
I am speaking of those who cannot tolerate the loss of myth and 
who can neither find a way to a merely exterior world, to the world 
as seen by science, nor rest satisfied with an intellectual juggling 
with words, which has nothing whatsoever to do with wisdom. 

These victims of the psychic dichotomy of our time are merely 
optional neurotics; their apparent morbidity drops away the moment 
the gulf between the ego and the unconscious is closed. The doctor 
who has felt this dichotomy to the depths of his being will also be 
able to reach a better understanding of the unconscious psychic 
processes, and will be saved from the danger of inflation to which 
the psychologist is prone. The doctor who does not know from his 
own experience the numinosity of the archetypes will scarcely be 
able to escape their negative effect when he encounters it in his 
practice. He will tend to over- or under-estimate it, since he 
possesses only an intellectual point of view but no empirical 
criterion. This is where those perilous aberrations begin, the first of 



which is the attempt to dominate everything by the intellect. This 
serves the secret purpose of placing both doctor and patient at a 
safe distance from the archetypal effect and thus from real 
experience, and of substituting for psychic reality an apparently 
secure, artificial, but merely two-dimensional conceptual world in 
which the reality of life is well covered up by so-called clear 
concepts. Experience is stripped of its substance, and instead 
mere names are substituted, which are henceforth put in the place 
of reality. No one has any obligations to a concept; that is what is so 
agreeable about conceptuality-it promises protection from 
experience. The spirit does not dwell in concepts, but in deeds and 
in facts. Words butter no parsnips; nevertheless, this futile 
procedure is repeated ad infinitum. 

In my experience, therefore, the most difficult as well as the most 
ungrateful patients, apart from habitual liars, are the so- called 
intellectuals. With them, one hand never knows what the other hand 
is doing. They cultivate a "compartment psychology." Anything can 
be settled by an intellect that is not subject to the control of feeling- 
and yet the intellectual still suffers from a neurosis if feeling is 
undeveloped. 

From my encounters with patients and with the psychic phenomena 
which they have paraded before me in an endless stream of 
images, I have learned an enormous amount-not just knowledge, 
but above all insight into my own nature. And not the least of what I 
have learned has come from my errors and defeats. I have had 
mainly women patients, who often entered into the work with 
extraordinary conscientiousness, understanding, and intelligence. It 
was essentially because of them that I was able to strike out on new 
paths in therapy. 

A number of my patients became my disciples in the original sense 
of the word, and have carried my ideas out into the world. Among 



them I have made friendships that have endured decade after 
decade. 

My patients brought me so close to the reality of human life that I 
could not help learning essential things from them. Encounters with 
people of so many different kinds and on so many different 
psychological levels have been for me incomparably more 
important than fragmentary conversations with celebrities. The 
finest and most significant conversations of my life were 
anonymous. 



Sigmund Freud 



I EMBARKED on the adventure of my intellectual development by 
becoming a psychiatrist. In all innocence I began observing mental 
patients, clinically, from the outside, and thereby came upon 
psychic processes of a striking nature. I noted and classified these 
things without the slightest understanding of their contents, which 
were considered to be adequately evaluated when they were 
dismissed as "pathological." In the course of time my interest 
focused more and more, upon cases in which I experienced 
something understandable-that is, cases of paranoia, manic- 
depressive insanity, and psychogenic disturbances. From the start 
of my psychiatric career the studies of Breuer and Freud, along with 
the work of Pierre Janet, provided me with a wealth of suggestions 
and stimuli. Above all, I found that Freud's technique of dream 
analysis and dream interpretation cast a valuable light upon 
schizophrenic forms of expression. As early as 1900 I had read 
Freud's The Imrerpretation of Dreams? 

1 This chapter should be regarded as a supplement to Jung's numerous 
writings Freud. The most important of these are contained in Freud and 
Psychoanalysis (CW 4). Cf. also "Sigmund Freud in His Historical Setting" 
(1934) and "Memory of Sigmund Freud" (1939), in The Spirit in Man, Art, 
and Literature (CW 15). . 

I had laid the book aside, at the time, because I did not yet grasp it. 
At the age of twenty-five I lacked the experience to appreciate 
Freud's theories. Such experience did not come until later. In 1 903 I 
once more took up The Interpretation of Dreams and discovered 



how it all linked up with my own ideas. What chiefly interested me 
was the application to dreams of the concept of the repression 
mechanism, which was derived from the psychology of the 
neuroses. This was important to me because I had frequently 
encountered repressions in my experiments with word association; 
in response to certain stimulus words the patient either had no 
associative answer or was unduly slow in his reaction time. As was 
later discovered, such a disturbance occurred each time the 
stimulus word had touched upon a psychic lesion or conflict. In most 
cases the patient was unconscious of this. When questioned about 
the cause of the disturbance, he would often answer in a peculiarly 
artificial manner. My reading of Freud's The Interpretation of 
Dreams showed me that the repression mechanism was at work 
here, and that the facts I had observed were consonant with his 
theory. Thus 1 was able to corroborate Freud's line of argument. The 
situation was different when it came to the content of the 
repression. Here I could not agree with Freud. He considered the 
cause of the repression to be a sexual trauma. From my practice, 
however, I was familiar with numerous cases of neurosis in which 
the question of sexuality played a subordinate part, other factors 
standing in the foreground-for example, the problem of social 
adaptation, of oppression by tragic circumstances of life, prestige 
considerations, and so on. Later I presented such cases to Freud; 
but he would not grant that factors other than sexuality could be the 
cause. That was highly unsatisfactory to me. 

At the beginning it was not easy for me to assign Freud the proper 
place in my life, or to take the right attitude toward him. When I 
became acquainted with his work I was planning an 

2 In his obituary on Freud (1939), Jung calls this work "epoch-making" and 
probably the boldest attempt that has ever been made to master the riddles 
of the unconscious psyche upon the apparently firm ground of empiricism. 
For us, then young psychiatrists, it was... a source of illumination, while for 



our older colleagues it was an object of mockery. "-A. J. 

academic career, and was about to complete a paper that was 
intended to advance me at the university. But Freud was definitely 
persona non grata in the academic world at the time, and any 
connection with him would have been damaging in scientific circles. 
"Important people" at most mentioned him surreptitiously, and at 
congresses he was discussed only in the corridors, never on the 
floor. Therefore the discovery that my association experiments were 
in agreement with Freud's theories was far from pleasant to me. 

Once, while I was in my laboratory and reflecting again upon these 
questions, the devil whispered to me that I would be justified in 
publishing the results of my experiments and my conclusions 
without mentioning Freud. After all, I had worked out my 
experiments long before I understood his work. But then I heard the 
voice of my second personality: "If you do a thing like that, as if you 
had no knowledge of Freud, it would be a piece of trickery. You 
cannot build your life upon a lie." With that, the question was settled. 
From then on I became an open partisan of Freud's and fought for 
him. 

I first took up the cudgels for Freud at a congress in Munich where a 
lecturer discussed obsessional neuroses but studiously forbore to 
mention the name of Freud. In 1906, in connection with this incident, 
I wrote a paper " for the Munchner Medizini- sche Woohenschrift on 
Freud's theory of the neuroses, which I had contributed a great deal 
to the understanding of obsessional neuroses. In response to this 
article, two German professors wrote to me, warning that if I 
remained on Freud's side and continued to defend him, I would be 
endangering my academic career. I replied: "If what Freud says is 
the truth, I am with him. I don't give a damn for a career if it has to be 
based on the premise of restricting research and concealing the 
truth." And I went on defending Freud and his ideas. But on the 



basis of my own findings I was still unable to feel that all neuroses 
were caused by sexual repression or sexual traumata. In certain 

3 "Die Hysterielehre Freuds: Eine Erwiderung auf die Aschaffenburgsche 
Kritik," Munehener medizinische Wocheewchrift, Llll (November, 1906), 47; 
English trans.: "Freud's Theory of Hysteria: A Reply to Aschaffcnburg, in 
Freud and Psychoanalysis ( CW 4). 

cases that was so, but not in others. Nevertheless, Freud had 
opened up a new path of investigation, and the shocked out- cries 
against him at the time seemed to me absurd. [4] 

I had not met with much sympathy for the ideas expressed in "The 
Psychology of Dementia Praecox." In fact, my colleagues laughed 
at me. But through this book I came to know Freud. He invited me to 
visit him, and our first meeting took place in Vienna in March 1907. 
We met at one o'clock in the afternoon and talked virtually without a 
pause for thirteen hours. Freud was the first man of real importance 
I had encountered; in my experience up to that time, no one else 
could compare with him. There was nothing the least trivial in his 
attitude. I found him extremely intelligent, shrewd, and altogether 
remarkable. And yet my first impressions of him remained 
somewhat tangled; I could not make him out. 

What he said about his sexual theory impressed me. Nevertheless, 
his words could not remove my hesitations and doubts. I tried to 
advance these reservations of mine on several occasions, but each 
time he would attribute them to my lack of experience. 

Freud was right; in those days I had not enough experience to 
support my objections. I could see that his sexual theory was 
enormously important to him, both personally and philosophically. 
This impressed me, but I could not decide to what extent this strong 
emphasis upon sexuality was connected with subjective prejudices 
of his, and to what extent it rested upon verifiable experiences. 



Above all, Freud's attitude toward the spirit seemed to me highly 
questionable. Wherever, in a person or in a work of art, an 
expression of spirituality (in the intellectual, not the supernatural 
sense) came to light, he suspected it, and insinuated that it was 
repressed sexuality. Anything that could not be directly interpreted 
as sexuality he referred to as "psychosexuality." 

In 1906, after Jung sent Freud Diagnostische 
Assoziatiorzsstudien (1 906; English trans, of Jung's contributions in 
Experimental Researches, CW 2), 

I protested that this hypothesis, carried to its logical conclusion, 
would lead to an annihilating judgment upon culture. Culture would 
then appear as a mere farce, the morbid consequence of 
repressed sexuality. "Yes," he assented, "so it is, and that is just a 
curse of fate against which we are powerless to contend." I was by 
no means disposed to agree, Or to let it go at that, but still I did not 
feel competent to argue it out with him. 

There was something else that seemed to me significant at that first 
meeting. It had to do with things which I was able to think out and 
understand only after our friendship was over. There was no 
mistaking the fact that Freud was emotionally involved in his sexual 
theory to an extraordinary degree. When he spoke of it, his tone 
became urgent, almost anxious, and all signs of his normally critical 
and skeptical manner vanished. A strange, deeply moved 
expression came over his face, the cause Of which I was at a loss 
to understand. I had a strong intuition that for him sexuality was a 
sort of numinosum. This was confirmed by a conversation which 
took place some three years later (in, 1910), again in Vienna. 

I can still recall vividly how Freud said to me, "My dear Jung, 
promise me never to abandon the sexual theory. That is the most 



essential thing of all. You see, we must make a dogma of it, an 
unshakable bulwark." He said that to me with great emotion, the 
tone of a father saying, "And promise me this one thing, my dear 
son: that you will go to church every Sunday." In some astonishment 
I asked him, "A bulwark-against what?" which he replied, "Against 
the black tide of mud"-and here hesitated for a moment, then 
added-"Of occultism." First of all, it was the words "bulwark" and 
"dogma" that alarmed me; for a dogma, that is to say, an 
undisputable confession of faith is set up only when the aim is to 
suppress doubts once and for all. But that no longer has anything to 
do with scientific judgment; only with a personal power drive. 

This was the thing that struck at the heart of our friendship. I knew 
that I would never be able to accept such an attitude. What Freud 
seemed to mean by "Occultism" was virtually everything that 
philosophy and religion, including the rising contemporary science 
of parapsychology, had learned about the psyche. To me the sexual 
theory was just as occult, that is to say, just as unproven an 
hypothesis, as many other speculative views. As I saw it, a scientific 
truth was a hypothesis which might be adequate for the moment but 
was not to be preserved as an article of faith for all time. 

Although I did not properly understand it then, I had observed in 
Freud the eruption of unconscious religious factors. Evidently he 
wanted my aid in erecting a barrier against these threatening 
unconscious contents. The impression this conversation made 
upon me added to my confusion; until then I had not considered 
sexuality as a precious and imperiled concept to which one must 
remain faithful. Sexuality evidently meant more to Freud than to 
other people. For him it was something to be religiously observed. 
In the face of such deep convictions one generally becomes shy 
and reticent. After a few stammering attempts on my part, the 
conversation soon came to an end. 



I was bewildered and embarrassed. I had the feeling that I had 
caught a glimpse of a new, unknown country from which swarms of 
new ideas flew to meet me. One thing was clear: Freud, who had 
always made much of his irreligiosity had now constructed a 
dogma; or rather, in the place of a jealous God whom he had lost, 
he had substituted another compelling image, that of sexuality. It 
was no less insistent, exacting, domineering, threatening, and 
morally ambivalent than the original one. Just as the psychically 
stronger agency is given "divine" or "daemonic" attributes, so the 
"sexual libido" took over the role of a deus absconditus, a hidden or 
concealed god. The advantage of this transformation for Freud 
was, apparently, that he was able to regard the new numinous 
principle as scientifically irreproachable and free from all religious 
taint. At bottom, however, the numinosity, that is, the psychological 
qualities of the two rationally incommensurable opposites-Yahweh 
and sexuality-remained the same. The name alone had changed, 
and with it, of course, the point of view: the lost god had now to be 
sought below, not above. But what difference does it make, 
ultimately, to the stronger agency if it is called now by one name 
and now by another? If psychology did not exist, but only concrete 
objects, the one would actually have been destroyed and replaced 
by the other. But in reality, that is to say, in psychological 
experience, there is not one whit the less of urgency, anxiety, 
compulsiveness, etc. The problem still remains: how to overcome 
or escape our anxiety, bad conscience, guilt, compulsion, 
unconsciousness, and instinctuality If we cannot do this from the 
bright, idealistic side, then perhaps we shall have better luck by 
approaching the problem from the dark, biological side. 

Like flames suddenly flaring up, these thoughts darted through my 
mind. Much later, when I reflected upon Freud's character, they 
revealed their significance. There was one characteristic of his that 
preoccupied me above all: his bitterness. It had struck me at our 



first encounter, but it remained inexplicable to me until I was able to 
see it in connection with his attitude toward sexuality. Although, for 
Freud, sexuality was undoubtedly a numinosum, his terminology 
and theory seemed to define it exclusively as a biological function. It 
was only the emotionality with which he spoke of it that revealed the 
deeper elements reverberating within him. Basically, he wanted to 
teach-or so at least it seemed to me-that, regarded from within, 
sexuality included spirituality and had an intrinsic meaning. But his 
concretistic terminology was too narrow to express this idea. He 
gave me the impression that at bottom he was working against his 
own goal and against himself; and there is, after all, no harsher 
bitterness than that of a person who is his own worst enemy. In his 
own words, he felt himself menaced by a "black tide of mud"-he 
who more than anyone else had tried to let down his buckets into 
those black depths. 

Freud never asked himself why he was compelled to talk continually 
of sex, why this idea had taken such possession of him. He 
remained unaware that his "monotony of interpretation" expressed 
a flight from himself, or from that other side of him which might 
perhaps be called mystical. So long as he refused to acknowledge 
that side, he could never be reconciled with himself. He was blind 
toward the paradox and ambiguity of the contents of the 
unconscious, and did not know that everything which arises out of 
the unconscious has a top and a bottom, an inside and an outside. 
When we speak of the outside-and that is what Freud did-we are 
considering only half of the whole, with the result that a countereffect 
arises out of the unconscious. 

There was nothing to be done about this one-sidedness of Freud's. 
Perhaps some inner experience of his own might have opened his 
eyes; but then his intellect would have reduced any such experience 
to "mere sexuality" or "psychosexuality." He remained the victim of 
the one aspect he could recognize, and for that reason I see him as 



a tragic figure; for he was a great man, and what is more, a man in 
the grip of his daimon. 

After that second conversation in Vienna I also understood Alfred 
Adler's power hypothesis, to which I had hitherto paid scant 
attention. Like many sons, Adler had learned from his "father" not 
what the father said, but what he did. Instantly, the problem of love 
(Eros) and power came down upon me like a leaden weight. Freud 
himself had told me that he had never read Nietzsche; now I saw 
Freud's psychology as, so to speak, an adroit move on the part of 
intellectual history, compensating for Nietzsche's deification of the 
power principle. The problem had obviously to be rephrased not as 
"Freud versus Adler" but "Freud versus Nietzsche." It was therefore, 
I thought, more than a domestic quarrel in the domain of 
psychopathology. The idea dawned on me that Eros and the power 
drive might be in a sense like the dissident sons of a single father, 
or the products of a single motivating psychic force which 
manifested itself empirically in opposing forms, like positive and 
negative electrical charges, Eros as a patiens, the power drive as 
an agens, and vice versa. Eros makes just as great demands upon 
the power drive as the latter upon the former. Where is the one 
drive without the other? On the one hand man succumbs to the 
drive; on the other hand, he tries to master it. Freud shows how the 
object succumbs to the drive, and Adler how man uses the drive in 
order to force his will upon the object. Nietzsche, helpless in the 
hands of his destiny, had to create a "superman" for himself. Freud, 
I concluded, must himself be so profoundly affected by the power of 
Eros that he actually wished to elevate it into a dogma-aere 
perenni us-like a religious numen. It is no secret that "Zarathustra" 
is the proclaimer of a gospel, and here was Freud also trying to 
outdo the church and to canonize a theory. To be sure, he did not 
do this too loudly; instead, he suspected me of wanting to be a 
prophet. He made his tragic claim and demolished it at the same 



time; That is how people usually behave with numinosities, and 
rightly so, for in one respect they are true, in another untrue. 
Numinous experience elevates and humiliates simultaneously; If 
Freud had given somewhat more consideration to the 
psychological truth that sexuality is numinous-both a god and devil- 
-he would not have remained bound within the confines of a 
biological concept. And Nietzsche might not have been carried over 
the brink of the world by his intellectual excesses if he had only held 
more firmly to the foundations of human existence. 

Wherever the psyche is set violently oscillating by a numinous 
experience, there is a danger that the thread by which one hangs 
may be torn. Should that happen, one man tumbles into an absolute 
affirmation, another into an equally absolute negation. Nirdvandva 
(freedom from opposites) is the Orient's remedy for this. I have not 
forgotten that. The pendulum of the mind oscillates between sense 
and nonsense, not between right an wrong. The numinosum is 
dangerous because it lures men extremes, so that a modest truth is 
regarded as the truth and a minor mistake is equated with fatal 
error. Tout passe-yesterday's truth is today's deception, and 
yesterday's false inference may be tomorrow's revelation. This is 
particularly so in pschological matters, of which, if truth were told, 
we still know very little. We are still a long way from understanding 
what signifies that nothing has any existence unless some small- 
and oh, so transitory-consciousness has become aware of it. 

My conversation with Freud had shown me that he feared that the 
numinous light of his sexual insights might be extinguished by a 
"black tide of mud." Thus a mythological situation had arisen: the 
struggle between light and darkness. That explains its numinosity, 
and why Freud immediately fell back on his dogma as a religious 
means of defense. In my next book, Wandungen und Symbole der 
Libido, [5] which dealt with the hero's struggle for freedom, Freud's 
curious reaction prompted me to investigate further this archetypal 



theme and its mythological background. 

What with the sexual interpretation on the one hand and the power 
drive of dogma on the other I was led, over the years, to give 
consideration of the problem of typology. It was necessary to study 
the polarity and dynamics of the psyche. And I also embarked upon 
an investigation extending over several decades of "the black tide 
of mud of occultism"~that is to say, I tried to understand the 
conscious and unconscious historical assumptions underlying our 
contemporary psychology. 

It interested me to hear Freud's views on precognition and on 
parapsychology in general. When I visited him in Vienna in 1909 I 
asked him what he thought of these matters. Because of his 
materialistic prejudice, he rejected this entire complex of questions 
as nonsensical, and did so in terms of so shallow a positivism that I 
had difficulty in checking the sharp retort on the tip of my tongue. It 
was some years before he recognized the seriousness of 
parapsychology and acknowledged the factuality of "occult" 
phenomena. 

While Freud was going on this way, I had a curious sensation. It 
was as if my diaphragm were made of iron and were becoming 
red-hot-a glowing vault. And at that moment there was such a loud 
report in the bookcase, which stood right next to us, that we both 
started up in alarm, fearing the thing was going to topple over on us. 
I said to Freud: "There, that is an example of a so-called catalytic 
exteriorization phenomenon. 

"Oh come," he exclaimed. "That is sheer bosh." 

"It is not," I replied. "You are mistaken, Herr Professor. And to prove 
my point I now predict that in a moment there will be another such 
loud report!" Sure enough, no sooner had I said the words than the 



same detonation went off in the bookcase, 

5 Published in 1912; English trans.; Psychology of the Unconscious (1917). 
Revedn., Symbole der Wandlung (1952); English trans.: Symbols of 
Transformation (CW 5. 1956) 

To this day I do not know what gave me this certainty. But I knew 
beyond all doubt that the report would come again. Freud only 
stared aghast at me. I do not know what was in his mind, or what his 
look meant. In any case, this incident aroused his mistrust of me, 
and I had the feeling that I had done something against him. I never 
afterward discussed the incident with him. [6] 

The year 1909 proved decisive for our relationship. I had been 
invited to lecture on the association experiment at Clark University 
in Worcester, Massachusetts. Independently, Freud had also 
received an invitation, and we decided to travel together. We met in 
Bremen, where Ferenczi joined us. In Bremen the much-discussed 
incident of Freud's fainting fit occurred. It was provoked-indirectly- 
by my interest in the "peat-bog corpses." I knew that in certain 
districts of Northern Germany; these so-called bog corpses were to 
be found. They are the bodies of prehistoric men who either 
drowned in the marshes or were buried there. The bog water in 
which the bodies lie contains humic acid, which consumes the 
bones and simultaneously tans the skin, so that it and the hair are 
perfectly preserved. In essence this is a process of natural 
mummification, in the course of which the bodies are pressed flat 
by the weight of the peat. Such remains are occasionally turned up 
by peat diggers in Holstein, Denmark, and Sweden. 

Having read about these peat-bog corpses, I recalled them when 
we were in Bremen, but, being a bit muddled, confused them with 
the mummies in the lead cellars of the city. This interest of mine got 
on Freud's nerves. "Why are you so concerned with these 



corpses?" he asked me several times. He was inordinately vexed 
by the whole thing and during one such conversation, while we were 
having dinner together, he sudden fainted. Afterward he said to me 
that he was convinced that all this chatter about corpses meant I 
had death-wishes toward him. I was more than surprised by this 
interpretation. I was alarmed by the intensity of his fantasies-so 
strong that, obviously, they could cause him to faint. 

In a similar connection Freud once more suffered a fainting 

6 For Freud's reaction to the incident, see Appendix I, pp. 361-63. 

7 See Appendix II, pp. 365-68. 

fit in my presence. This was during the Psychoanalytic Congress in 
Munich in 1912. Someone had turned the conversation to 
Amenophis IV (Ikhnaton). The point was made that as a result of his 
negative attitude toward his father he had destroyed his father's 
cartouches on the steles, and that at the back of his great creation 
of a monotheistic religion there lurked a father complex. This sort of 
thing irritated me, and I attempted to argue that Amenophis had 
been a creative and profoundly religious person whose acts could 
not be explained by personal resistances toward his father. On the 
contrary, I said, he had held the memory of his father in honor, and 
his zeal for destruction had been directed only against the name of 
the god Amon, which he had everywhere annihilated; it was also 
chiseled out of the cartouches of his father Amon-hotep. Moreover, 
other pharaohs had replaced the names of their actual or divine 
forefathers on monuments and statues by their own, feeling that they 
had a right to do so since they were incarnations of the same god. 
Yet they, I pointed out, had inaugurated neither a new style nor a 
new religion. 

At that moment Freud slid off his chair in a faint. Everyone clustered 
helplessly around him. I picked him up, carried him into the next 



room, and laid him on a sofa. As I was carrying him, he half came 
to, and I shall never forget the look he cast at me. In his weakness 
he looked at me as if I were his father. Whatever other causes may 
have contributed to this faint-the atmosphere was very tense-the 
fantasy of father-murder was common to both cases. 

At the time Freud frequently made allusions indicating that he 
regarded me as his successor. These hints were embarrassing to 
me, for I knew that I would never be able to uphold his views 
properly, that is to say, as he intended them. On the other hand I 
had not yet succeeded in working out my criticisms in such a 
manner that they would carry any weight with him, and my respect 
for him was too great for me to want to force him to come finally to 
grips with my own ideas.-l was by no means charmed by the 
thought of being burdened, virtually over my own head, with the 
leadership of a party. In the first place that sort of thing was not in 
my nature; in the second place I could not sacrifice my intellectual 
independence; and in the third place such luster was highly 
unwelcome to me since it would only deflect me from my real aims. I 
was concerned with investigating truth, not with questions of 
personal prestige. 

The trip to the United States which began in Bremen in 1909 lasted 
for seven weeks. We were together every day, and analyzed each 
other's dreams. At the time I had a number of important ones, but 
Freud could make nothing of them. I did not regard that as any 
reflection upon him, for it sometimes happens to the best analyst 
that he is unable to unlock the riddle of a dream. It was a human 
failure, and I would never have wanted to discontinue our dream 
analyses on that account. On the contrary, they meant a great deal 
to me, and I found our relationship exceedingly valuable. I regarded 
Freud as an older, more mature and experienced personality, and 
felt like a son in that respect. But then something happened which 
proved to be a severe blow to the whole relationship. 



Freud had a dream-l would not think it right to air the problem it 
involved. I interpreted it as best I could, but added that a great deal 
more could be said about it if he would supply me with some 
additional details from his private life. Freud's response to these 
words was a curious look-a look of the utmost suspicion. Then he 
said, "But I cannot risk my authority!" At that moment he lost it 
altogether. That sentence burned itself into my memory; and in it the 
end of our relationship was already foreshadowed. Freud was 
placing personal authority above truth. 

As I have already said, Freud was able to interpret the dreams I 
was then having only incompletely or not at all. They were dreams 
with collective contents, containing, a great deal of symbolic 
material. One in particular was important to me, for it led me for the 
first time to the concept of the "collective unconscious" and thus 
formed a kind of prelude to my book, Wendlungen and Symbole der 
Libido.[8] 

This was the dream. I was in a house I did not know, which had two 
stories. It was "my house." I found myself in the upper 

8 Psychology of the Unconscious; rev edn.: Symbols of Transformation 
(CW 5). 

story, where there was a kind of salon furnished with fine old Pieces 
in rococo style. On the walls hung a number of precious old 
paintings. I wondered that this should be my house, and thought, 
"Not bad." But then it occtured to me that I did not know what the 
lower floor looked like. Descending the stairs, I reached the ground 
floor. There everything was much older, and I realized that this part 
of the house must date from about the fifteenth or sixteenth century. 
The furnishings were medieval; the floors were of red brick. 
Everywhere it was rather dark. I went from one room to another, 



thinking, "Now I really must explore the whole house." I came upon a 
heavy door, and opened it. Beyond it, I discovered a stone stairway 
that led down into the cellar. Descending again, I found myself in a 
beautifully vaulted room which looked exceedingly ancient. 
Examining the walls, I discovered layers of brick among the 
ordinary stone blocks, and chips of brick in the mortar. As soon as I 
saw this I knew that the walls dated from Roman times. My interest 
by now was intense. I looked more closely at the floor. It was of 
stone slabs, and in one of these I discovered a ring. When I pulled 
it, the stone slab lifted, and again I saw a stairway of narrow stone 
steps leading down into the depths. These, too, I descended, and 
entered a low cave cut into the rock. Thick dust lay on the floor, and 
in the dust were scattered bones and broken pottery, like remains 
of a primitive culture. I discovered two human skulls, obviously very 
old and half disintegrated. Then I awoke. 

What chiefly interested Freud in this dream were the two skulls. He 
returned to them repeatedly, and urged me to find a wish in 
connection with them. What did I think about these skulls? And 
whose were they? I knew perfectly well, of course, what he was 
driving at: that secret death-wishes were concealed in the dream. 
"But what does he really expect of me?" 1 thought to myself. Toward 
whom would I have death wishes? I felt violent resistance to any 
such interpretation. I also had some intimation of what the dream 
might really mean. But 1 did not then trust my own judgment, and 
wanted to hear Freud's opinion. I wanted to learn from him. 
Therefore I submitted to his intention and said, "My wife and my 
sister-in-law" -after all, I had to name someone whose death was 
worth the wishing! 

I was newly married at the time and knew perfectly well that there 
was nothing within myself which pointed to such wishes. But I would 
not have been able to present to Freud my own ideas on an 
interpretation of the dream without encountering incomprehension 



and vehement resistance. I did not feel up to quarreling with him, 
and I also feared that I might lose friendship if I insisted on my own 
point of view. On the other, hand, I wanted to know what he would 
make of my answer, and what his reaction would be if I deceived 
him by saying something that suited his theories. And so I told him a 
lie. 

I was quite aware that my conduct was not above reproach, but a la 
guerre, comme a la guerre! It would have been impossible for me to 
afford him any insight into my mental world. The gulf between it and 
his was too great. In fact Freud seemed greatly relieved by my 
reply. I saw from this that he was completely helpless in dealing with 
certain kinds of dreams and had to take refuge in his doctrine. I 
realized that it was up to me to find out the real meaning of the 
dream. 

It was plain to me that the house represented a kind of image of the 
psyche-that is to say, of my then state of consciousness, with 
hitherto unconscious additions. Consciousness was represented by 
the salon. It had an inhabited atmosphere, in spite of its antiquated 
style. 

The ground floor stood for the first level of the unconscious. The 
deeper I went, the more alien and the darker the scene came. In the 
cave, I discovered remains of a primitive culture, that is, the world of 
the primitive man within myself-a world which can scarcely be 
reached or illuminated by consciousness. The primitive psyche of 
man borders on the life of the animal soul, just as the caves of 
prehistoric times were usually inhabit by animals before men laid 
claim to them. 

During this period I became aware of how keenly I felt the difference 
between Freud's intellectual attitude and mine. I had grown up in the 
intensely historical atmosphere of Basel at the end of the nineteenth 



century, and had acquired, thanks reading the old philosophers, 
some knowledge of the history of Psychology. When I thought about 
dreams and the contents of the unconscious, 1 never did so without 
making historical comparisons; in my student days I always used 
Krug'sold dictionary of philosophy. I was especially familiar with the 
writers of the eighteenth and early nineteenth century. Theirs was 
the world which had formed the atmosphere of my first-story salon. 
By contrast, I had the impression that Freud's intellectual history 
began with Buchner, Moleschott, Du Bois-Reymond, and Darwin. 

The dream pointed out that there were further reaches to the state 
of consciousness I have just described: the long uninhabited ground 
floor in medieval style, then the Roman cellar, and finally the 
prehistoric cave. These signified past times and passed stages of 
consciousness. 

Certain questions had been much on my mind during the days 
preceding this dream. They were: On what premises is Freudian 
psychology founded? To what category of human thought does it 
belong? What is the relationship of its almost exclusive personalism 
to general historical assumptions? My dream was giving me the 
answer. It obviously pointed to the foundations of cultural history-a 
history of successive layers of consciousness. My dream thus 
constituted a kind of structural diagram of the human psyche; it 
postulated something of an altogether impersonal nature underlying 
that psyche. It "clicked," as the English have it-and the dream 
became for me a guiding image which in the days to come was to 
be corroborated to an extent I could not at first suspect. It was my 
first inkling of a collective a priori beneath the personal psyche. This 
I first took to be the traces of earlier modes of functioning. Later, 
with increasing experience and on the basis of more reliable 
knowledge, I recognized them as forms of instinct, that is, as 
archetypes. 



I was never able to agree with Freud that the dream is a "facade" 
behind which its meaning lies hidden-a meaning already known but 
maliciously, so to speak, withheld from consciousness. To me 
dreams are a part of nature, which harbors no intentian to deceive, 
but expresses something as best it can, just as a plant grows or an 
animal seeks its food as best it can. These forms of life, too, have 
no wish to deceive our eyes, but we may deceive ourselves 
because our eyes are shortsighted. Or we hear amiss because our 
ears are rather deaf-but it is not our ears that wish to deceive us. 
Long before I met Freud I regarded the unconscious, and dreams, 
which are its direct exponents, as natural processes to which no 
arbitrariness can be attributed and above all no legerdemain. I 
knew no reasons for the assumption that the tricks of 
consciousness can be extended to the natural processes of the 
unconscious. On the contrary, daily experience taught me what 
intense resistance the unconscious experience opposes to the 
tendencies of the conscious mind. 

The dream of the house had a curious effect upon me: it revived my 
old interest in archaeology. After I had returned to Zurich I took up a 
book on Babylonian excavations, and read various works on myths. 
In the course of this reading I came across Friedrich Creuzer's 
Symbolik und Mythologie der alten Volker[9]-and that fired me. I 
read like mad, and worked with feverish interest through a mountain 
of mythological material then through the Gnostic writers, and 
ended in total confusion. I found myself in a state of perplexity 
similar to the one I had experienced at the clinic when I tried to 
understand the meaning of psychotic states of mind. It was as if I 
were in an imaginary madhouse and were beginning to treat and 
analyze all the centaurs, nymphs, gods, and goddesses in 
Creuzer's book as though they were my patients. While thus 
occupied I could not help but discover the close relationship 
between ancient mythology and the psychology of primitives, and 



this led me to an intensive study of the latter. 

In the midst of these studies I came upon the fantasies of a young 
American altogether unknown to me, Miss Miller. The material had 
been published by my revered and fatherly friend, Theodore 
Flournoy in the Archives de Psychologie (Geneva- I was 
immediately struck by the mythological character of the fantasies. 

9 The Symbolism and Mythology of Ancient Peoples (Leipzig and 
Darmstadt, 1810-23). 

They operated like a catalyst upon the stored-up and still disorderly 
ideas within me. Gradually, there formed out of them, and out of the 
knowledge of myths I had acquired, my book Wandlungen und 
Symboleder Libido. 

While I was working on this book, I had dreams which presaged the 
forthcoming break with Freud. One of the most significant had its 
scene in a mountainous region on the Swiss-Austrian border. It was 
toward evening, and I saw an elderly man in the uniform of an 
Imperial Austrian customs official. He walked past, somewhat 
stooped, without paying any attention to me. His expression was 
peevish, rather melancholic and vexed. There were other persons 
present, and someone informed me that the old man was not really 
there, but was the ghost of a customs official who had died years 
ago. "He is one of those who still couldn't die properly." That was 
the first part of the dream. 

I set about analyzing this dream. In connection with "customs" I at 
once thought of the word "censorship." In connection with "border" I 
thought of the border between consciousness and the unconscious 
on the one hand, and between Freud's views and mine on the other. 
The extremely rigorous customs examination at the border seemed 
to me an allusion to analysis. At a border suitcases are opened and 



examined for contraband. In the course of this examination, 
unconscious assumptions are discovered. As for the old customs 
official, his work had obviously brought him so little that was 
pleasurable and satisfactory that he took a sour view of the world. I 
could not refuse to see the analogy with Freud. 

At that time Freud had lost much of his authority for me. But he still 
meant to me a superior personality, upon whom I projected the 
father, and at the time of the dream this projection was still far from 
eliminated. Where such a projection occurs, we are no longer 
objective; we persist in a state of divided judgment. On the one 
hand we are dependent, and on the other we have resistances. 
When the dream took place I still thought highly of Freud, but at the 
same time I was critical of him. This divided attitude is a sign that I 
was still unconscious of the situation and had not come to any 
resolution of it. This characteristic of all projections. The dream 
urged upon me the necessity of clarifying this situation. 

Under the impress of Freud's personality I had, as far as possible, 
cast aside my own judgments and repressed my criticisms. That 
was the prerequisite for collaborating with him. I had told myself, 
"Freud is far wiser and more experienced than you. For the present 
you must simply listen to what he says and learn from him. And then, 
to my own surprise, I found myself dreaming of him as a peevish 
official of the Imperial Austrian monarchy, as a defunct and still 
walking ghost of a custom inspector. Could that be the death-wish 
which Freud had insinuated I felt toward him? I could find no part of 
myself that normally might have had such a wish, for I wanted at all 
costs to be able to work with Freud, and, in a frankly egotistic 
manner, to partake of his wealth of experience. His friendship 
meant a great deal to me. I had no reason for wishing him dead. 
But it was possible that the dream could be regarded as a 
corrective, as a compensation or antidote for my conscious high 
opinion and admiration. Therefore the dream recommended a 



rather more critical attitude toward Freud. I was distinctly shocked 
by it, although the final sentence of the dream seemed to me an 
allusion to Freud's potential immortality. 

The dream had not reached its end with the episode the customs 
official; after a hiatus came a second and far more remarkable part. 
I was in an Italian city, and it was around noon, between twelve and 
one o'clock. A fierce sun was beating down upon the narrow 
streets. The city was built on hills and reminded me of a particular 
part of Basel, the Kohlenberg. The little streets which lead down into 
the valley, the Birsigtal, that runs through the city, are partly flights of 
steps. In the dream one such stairway descended to Barfusserplatz. 
The city was Basel, and yet it was also an Italian city, something like 
Bergamo. It was summertime; the blazing sun stood at the zenith, 
and everything was bathed in an intense light. A crowd came 
streaming toward me, and I knew that the shops were closing and 
people were on their way home to dinner. In the midst of this stream 
of people walked a knight in full armor. He mounted the steps 
toward me. He wore a helmet of the kind that is called a basinet, 
with eye slits, and chain armor. Over this was a white tunic into 
which was woven, front and back, a large red cross. 

One can easily imagine how I felt: suddenly to see in a modern city, 
during the noonday rush hour, a crusader coming toward me. What 
struck me as particularly odd was that none of the many persons 
walking about seemed to notice him. No one turned his head or 
gazed after him. It was as though he were completely invisible to 
everyone but me. I asked myself what this apparition meant, and 
then it was as if someone answered me-but there was no one 
there to speak: "Yes, this is a regular apparition. The knight always 
passes by here between twelve and one o'clock, and has been 
doing so for a very long time [for centuries, I gathered] and 
everyone knows about it." 



The knight and the customs oflicial were contrasting figures. The 
customs official was shadowy, someone who "still couldn't die 
properly" -a fading apparition. The knight, on the other hand, was 
full of life and completely real. The second part of the dream was 
numinous in the extreme, whereas the scene on the border had 
been prosaic and in itself not impressive; I had been struck only by 
my reflections upon it. 

In the period following these dreams I did a great deal of thinking 
about the mysterious figure of the knight. But it was only much later, 
after I had been meditating on the dream for a long time, that I was 
able to get some idea of its meaning. Even in the dream, I knew 
that the knight belonged to the twelfth century. That was the period 
when alchemy was beginning and also the quest for the Holy Grail. 
The stories of the Grail had been of the greatest importance to me 
ever since I read them, at the age of fifteen, for the first time. I had 
an inkling that a great secret still lay hidden behind those stories. 
Therefore it seemed quite natural to me that the dream should 
conjure up the world of the Knights of the Grail and their quest-for 
that was, in the deepest sense, my own world, which had scarcely 
anything to do with Freud's. My whole being was seeking for 
something still unknown which might confer meaning upon the 
banality of life. 

To me it was a profound disappointment that all the efforts of the 
probing mind had apparently succeeded in finding nothing more in 
the depths of the psyche than the all too familiar and "all-too-human" 
limitations. I had grown up in the country, among peasants, and 
what I was unable to learn in the stables I found out from the 
Rabelaisian wit and the untrammeled fantasies of our peasant 
folklore. Incest and perversions were no remarkable novelties to 
me, and did not call for any special explanation. Along with 
criminality, they formed part of the black lees that spoiled the taste 
of life by showing me only too plainly the ugliness and 



meaninglessness of human existence. That cabbages thrive in 
dung was something I had always taken for granted. In all honesty I 
could discover no helpful insight in such knowledge. "It's just that all 
of those people are city folks who know nothing about nature and 
the human stable," I thought, sick and tired of these ugly matters. 

People who know nothing about nature are of course neurotic, for 
they are not adapted to reality. They are too naive like children, and 
it is necessary to tell them the facts of life, so to speak-to make it 
plain to them that they are human beings like all others. Not that 
such enlightenment will cure neurotics; they can only regain their 
health when they climb up out the mud of the commonplace. But 
they are only too fond of lingering in what they have earlier 
repressed. How are they ever to emerge if analysis does not make 
them aware of something different and better, when even theory 
holds them fast in it and offers them nothing more than the rational 
or "reasonable injunction to abandon such childishness? That is 
precisely what they cannot do, and how should they be able to if 
they do not discover something to stand on? One form of life cannot 
simply be abandoned unless it is exchanged for another. As for a 
rational approach to life, that is, as experience shows, impossable, 
especially when a person is by nature as unreasonable as a 
neurotic. 

I now realized why Freud's personal psychology was of such 
burning interest to me. I was eager to know the truth about a 
"reasonable solution," and I was prepared to sacrifice a good deal 
in order to obtain the answer. Now I felt that I was on the track of it. 
Freud himself had a neurosis, no doubt diagnosable and one with 
highly troublesome symptoms, as I had discovered on our voyage 
to America. Of course he had taught me that everybody is 
somewhat neurotic, and that we must practice tolerance. But I was 
not at all inclined to content myself with that; rather, I wanted to know 
how one could escape having a neurosis. Apparently neither Freud 



nor his disciples could understand what it meant for the theory and 
practice of psychoanalysis if not even the master could deal with his 
own neurosis. When, then, Freud announced his intention of 
identifying theory and method and making them into some kind of 
dogma, I could no longer collaborate with him; there remained no 
choice for me but to withdraw. 

When I was working on my book about the libido and approaching 
the end of the chapter "The Sacrifce," I knew in advance that its 
publication would cost me my friendship with Freud. For I planned 
to set down in it my own conception of incest, the decisive 
transformation of the concept of libido, and various other ideas in 
which I differed from Freud. To me incest signified a personal 
complication only in the rarest cases. Usually incest has a highly 
religious aspect, for which reason the incest theme plays a decisive 
part in almost all cosmogonies and in numerous myths. But Freud 
clung to the literal interpretation of it and could not grasp the 
spiritual significance of incest as a symbol. I knew that he would 
never be able to accept any of my ideas on this subject. 

I spoke with my wife about this, and told her of my fears. She 
attempted to reassure me, for she thought that Freud would 
magnanimously raise no objections, although he might not accept 
my views. I myself was convinced that he could not do so. For two 
months I was unable to touch my pen, so tormented was I by the 
conflict. Should I keep my thoughts to myself, or should I risk the 
loss of so important a friendship? At last I resolved to go ahead with 
the writing-and it did indeed cost me Freud's friendship. 

After the break with Freud, all my friends and acquaintances 
dropped away. My book was declared to be rubbish; I was a 
mystic, and that settled the matter. Riklin and Maeder alone stuck 
by me. But I had foreseen my isolation and harbored no illusion 
about the reactions of my so-called friends. That was a point I had 



thoroughly considered beforehand. I had known that everything was 
at stake, and that I had to take a stand for my convictions. I realized 
that the chapter, "The Sacrifice,"* meant my own sacrifice. Having 
reached this insight, I was able to write again, even though I knew 
that my ideas would go uncomprehended. 

In retrospect I can say that I alone logically pursued the two 
problems which most interested Freud: the problem of "archaic 
vestiges," and that of sexuality. It is a widespread error to imagine 
that I do not see the value of sexuality. On the contrary, it plays a 
large part in my psychology as an essential-though not the sole- 
expression of psychic wholeness. But my main concern has been to 
investigate, over and above its personal significance and biological 
function, its spiritual aspect and its numinous meaning, and thus to 
explain what Freud was so fascinated by but was unable to grasp. 
My thoughts on this subject are contained in "The Psychology of the 
Transference" and the Mysterium Coniunctionis.[11] Sexuality is of 
the greatest importance as the expression of the chthonic spirit. 
That spirit is the "other face of God," the dark side of the God- 
image. The question of the chthonic spirit has occupied me ever 
since I began to delve into the world of alchemy. Basically, this 
interest was awakened by that early conversation with Freud, when 
mystified, I felt how deeply stirred he was by the phenomenon of 
sexuality. 

Freud's greatest achievement probably consisted in neurotic 
patients seriously and entering into their peculiar individual 
psychology. He had the courage to let the case material speak for 
itself, and in this way was able to penetrate into the real psychology 
of his patients. He saw with the patient's eyes so to speak, and so 
reached a deeper understanding of mental illness than had hitherto 
been possible. In this respect he was free of bias, courageous, and 
succeeded in overcoming a host of prejudices. 



10 In The Practice of Psychotherapy; (CW 16). 
11CW14. 

Like an Old Testament prophet, he undertook to overthrow false 
gods, to rip the veils away from a mass of dishonesties and 
hypocrisies, mercilessly exposing the rottenness of the 
contemporary psyche. He did not falter in the face of the 
unpopularity such an enterprise entailed. The impetus which he 
gave to our civilization sprang from his discovery of an avenue to 
the unconscious. By evaluating dreams as the most important 
source of information concerning the unconscious processes, he 
gave back to mankind a tool that had seemed irretrievably lost. He 
demonstrated empirically the presence of an unconscious psyche 
which had hitherto existed only as a philosophical postulate, in 
particular in the philosophies of C. G. Cams and Eduard von 
Hartmann. 

It may well be said that the contemporary cultural consciousness 
has not yet absorbed into its general philosophy the idea of the 
unconscious and all that it means, despite the fact that modern man 
has been confronted with this idea for more than half a century. The 
assimilation of the fundamental insight that psychic life has two 
poles still remains a task for the future. 



VI 

Confrontation with the 
Unconscious 



After the parting of the ways with Freud, a period of inner 
uncertainty began for me. It would be no exaggeration to call it a 
state of disorientation. I felt totally suspended in mid-air, for I had 
not yet found my own footing. Above all, I felt it necessary to develop 
a new attitude toward my patients. I resolved for the present not to 
bring any theoretical premises to bear upon them, but to wait and 
see what they would tell of their own accord. My aim became to 
leave things to chance. The result was that the patients would 
spontaneously report their dreams and fantasies to me, and I would 
merely ask, "What occurs to you in connection with that?" or, "How 
do you mean that, where does that come from, what do you think 
about it?" The interpretations seemed to follow of their own accord 
from the patients' replies and associations. I avoided all theoretical 
points of view and simply helped the patients to understand the 
dream-images by themselves, without application of rules and 
theories. 

Soon I realized that it was right to take the dreams in this way as the 
basis of interpretation, for that is how dreams are intended. They 
are the facts from which we must proceed. Naturally, the aspects 
resulting from this method were so multitudinous that the need for a 
criterion grew more and more pressing-the need, I might almost 
put it, for some initial orientation. 



About this time I experienced a moment of unusual clarity in which I 
looked back over the way I had traveled so far. I thought, "Now you 
possess a key to mythology and are free to unlock all the gates of 
the unconscious psyche." But then something whispered within me, 
"Why open all gatesl'" And promptly the question arose of what, 
after all, I had accomplished. I had explained the myths of peoples 
of the past; I had written a book about the hero, the myth in which 
man has always lived. But in what myth does man live nowadays? In 
the Christian myth, the answer might be, "Do you live in it?" I asked 
myself. To be honest, the answer was no. For me, it is not what I live 
by." "Then do we no longer have any myth?" "No, evidently we no 
longer have any myth." "But then what is your myth-the myth in 
which you do live?" At this point the dialogue with myself became 
uncomfortable, and I stopped thinking. I had reached a dead end. 

Then, around Christmas of 1912, I had a dream. In the dream I 
found myself in a magnificent Italian loggia with pillars, a marble 
floor, and a marble balustrade. I was sitting on a gold Renaissance 
chair; in front of me was a table of rare beauty. It was made of 
green stone, like emerald. There I sat, looking out into the distance, 
for the loggia was set high up on the tower of a castle. My children 
were sitting at the table too. 

Suddenly a white bird descended, a small sea gull or a dove. 
Gracefully, it came to rest on the table, and I signed to the children 
to be still so that they would not frighten away the pretty white bird. 
Immediately, the dove was transformed into a little girl, about eight 
years of age, with golden blond hair. She ran off with the children 
and played with them among the colonnades of the castle. 

I remained lost in thought, musing about what I had just 
experienced. The little girl returned and tenderly placed her arms 
around my neck. Then she suddenly vanished; the dove was back 
and spoke slowly in a human voice. "Only in the first hours of the 



night can I transform myself into a human being; while the male 
dove is busy with the twelve dead." Then she flew off into the blue 
air, and I awoke. 

I was greatly stirred. What business would a male dove having with 
twelve dead people? In connection with the emerald table the story 
of the Tabula Smaragdina occurred to the emerald table in the 
alchemical legend of Hermes Trismegistos. He was said to have 
left behind him a table upon which the basic tenets of alchemical 
wisdom were engraved in Greek. 

I also thought of the twelve apostles, the twelve months the year, the 
signs of the zodiac, etc. But I could find no solution to the enigma. 
Finally I had to give it up. All I knew with any certainty was that the 
dream indicated an unusual activation of the unconscious. But I 
knew no technique whereby I might get to the bottom of my inner 
processes, and so there remained nothing for me to do but wait, go 
on with my life, and pay close attention to my fantasies. 

One fantasy kept returning: there was something dead present, but 
it was also still alive. For example, corpses were placed in 
crematory ovens, but were then discovered to be still living. These 
fantasies came to a head and were simultaneously solved in a 
dream. 

I was in a region like the Alyscamps near Aries. There they have a 
lane of sarcophagi which go back to Merovingian times. In the 
dream I was coming from the city, and saw before me a similar lane 
with a long row of tombs. They were pedestals with stone slabs on 
which the dead lay. They reminded me of old church burial vaults, 
where knights in armor lie out- stretched. Thus the dead lay in my 
dream, in their antique clothes, with hands clasped, the difference 
being that they were not hewn out of stone, but in a curious fashion 
mummified. I stood still in front of the first grave and looked at the 



dead in who was a person of the eighteen-thirties. I looked at his 
clothing with interest, whereupon he suddenly moved and came to 
life. He unclasped his hands; but that was only because I was 
looking at him. I had an extremely unpleasant feeling, but walked on 
and came to another body. He belonged to the eighteenth century. 
There exactly the same thing happened: when I looked at him, he 
came to life and moved his hands. So I went down the whole row, 
until I came to the twelfth century-that is, to a crusader in chain mail 
who lay there with clasped hands. His figure seemed carved out of 
wood. For a long time I looked at him and thought he was really 
dead. But suddenly I saw that a finger of his left hand was beginning 
to stir gently. 

Of course I had originally held to Freud's view that vestiges of old 
experiences exist in the unconscious. But dreams like this, and my 
actual experiences of the unconscious, taught me that such 
contents are not dead, outmoded forms, but belong to our living 
being. My work had confirmed this assumption, and in the course of 
years there developed from it the theory of archetypes. 

The dreams, however, could not help me over my feeling of 
disorientation. On the contrary, I lived as if under constant inner 
pressure. At times this became so strong that I suspected there 
was some psychic disturbance in myself. Therefore I twice went 
over all the details of my entire life, with particular attention to 
childhood memories; for I thought there might be something in my 
past which I could not see and which might possibly be the cause of 
the disturbance. But this retrospection led to nothing but a fresh 
acknowledgment of my own ignorance. Thereupon I said to myself, 
"Since I know nothing at all, I shall simply do whatever occurs to 
me." Thus I consciously submitted myself to the impulses of the 
unconscious. 

The first thing that came to the surface was a childhood memory 



from perhaps my tenth or eleventh year. At that time I had had a 
spell of playing passionately with building blocks. I distinctly recalled 
how I had built little houses and castles, using bottles to form the 
sides of gates and vaults. Somewhat later I had used ordinary 
stones, with mud for mortar. These structures had fascinated me for 
a long time. To my astonishment, this memory was accompanied 
by a good deal of emotion. "Aha," I 

1 Freud speaks of "archaic \estiges." 

said to myself, "there is still life in these things. The small boy is still 
around, and possesses a creative life which I lack. But how can I 
make my way to it?" For as a grown man it seemed impossible to 
me that I should be able to bridge the distance from the present 
back to my eleventh year. Yet if I wanted to re-establish contact with 
that period, I had no choice but to return to it and take up once more 
that child's life with his childish games. This moment was a turning 
point in my fate, but I gave in only after endless resistances and with 
a sense of resignation. For it was a painfully humiliating experience 
to realize that there was nothing to be done except play childish 
games. Nevertheless, I began accumulating suitable stones, 
gathering them partly from the lake shore and partly from the water. 

And I started building: cottages, a castle, a whole village. The 
church was still missing, so I made a square building with a 
hexagonal drum on top of it, and a dome. A church also requires an 
altar, but I hesitated to build that. 

Preoccupied with the question of how I could approach this task, I 
was walking along the lake as usual one day, picking stones out of 
the gravel on the shore. Suddenly I caught sight of a red stone, a 
four-sided pyramid about an inch and a half high. It was a fragment 
of stone which had been polished into this shape by the action of 
the water-a pure product of chance. I knew at once: this was the 



altar. I placed it in the middle under the dome, and as I did so, I 
recalled the underground phallus of my childhood dream. This 
connection gave me a feeling of satisfaction. 

I went on with my building game after the noon meal every day, 
whenever the weather permitted. As soon as I was through eating, I 
began playing, and continued to do so until the patients arrived; and 
if I was finished with my work early enough in the evening, I went 
back to building. In the course of this activity my thoughts clarified, 
and I was able to grasp the fantasies whose presence in myself I 
dimly felt. 

Naturally, I thought about the significance of what I was doing, and 
asked myself, "Now, really, what are you about? You are building a 
small town, and doing it as if it were a rite!" I had no answer to my 
question, only the inner certainty that I was on the way to 
discovering my own myth. For the building game was only a 
beginning. It released a stream of fantasies which I later carefully 
wrote down. 

This sort of thing has been consistent with me, and at any time in 
my later life when I came up against a blank wall, I painted a picture 
or hewed stone. Each such experience proved to be a rite d'entree 
for the ideas and works that followed hard upon it it. Everything that I 
have written this year " and last year, "The Undiscovered Self," 
"Flying Saucers: A Modern Myth," "A Psychological View of 
Conscience," has grown out of the the sculptures I did after my 
wife's death? The close of her life, the end, and what it made me 
realize, wrenched me violently out of myself. It cost me a great deal 
to regain my footing and contact with stone helped me. 

Toward the autumn of 1913 the pressure which I had felt was in me 
seemed to be moving outward, as though there were something in 
the air. The atmosphere actually seemed to me darker than it had 



been. It was as though the sense of oppression no longer sprang 
exclusively from a psychic situation, but from concrete reality. This 
feeling grew more and more intense. 

In October, while I was alone on a journey, I was suddenly seized by 
an overpowering vision: I saw a monstrous flood covering all the 
northern and low-lying lands between the North Sea and the Alps. 
When it came up to Switzerland I saw that in the mountains grew 
higher and higher to protect our country. I realized that a frightful 
catastrophe was in progress. I saw the mighty yellow waves, the 
floating rubble of civilization, and the drowned bodies of uncounted 
thousands. Then the whole sea turned to blood. This vision lasted 
about one hour. I was perplexed and nauseated, and ashamed of 
my weakness. 

Two weeks passed; then the vision recurred, under the same 
conditions, even more vividly than before, and the blood was 
emphasized. An inner voice spoke. "Look at it well; it is wholly real 
and it will be so. You cannot doubt it." That winter someone asked 
me what I thought were the political prospects of the world in the 
near future. I replied that I had no thoughts on the matter, but that I 
saw rivers of blood. 

I asked myself whether these visions pointed to a revolution, but 
could not really imagine anything of the sort. And so I drew the 
conclusion that they had to do with me myself, and decided that I 
was menaced by a psychosis. The idea of war did not occur to me 
at all. 

Soon afterward, in the spring and early summer of 1914, I had a 
thrice-repeated dream that in the middle of summer an Arctic cold 
wave descended and froze the land to ice. I saw, for example, the 
whole of Lorraine and its canals frozen and the entire region totally 
deserted by human beings. All living green things were killed by 



frost. This dream came in April and May, and for the last time in 
June, 1914. 

In the third dream frightful cold had again descended from out of the 
cosmos. This dream, however, had an unexpected end. There 
stood a leaf-bearing tree, but without fruit (my tree of life, I thought), 
whose leaves had been transformed by the effects of the frost into 
sweet grapes full of healing juices. I plucked the grapes and gave 
them to a large, waiting crowd. 

At the end of July 1914 I was invited by the British Medical 
Association to deliver a lecture, "On the Importance of the 
Unconscious in Psychopathology? at a congress in Aberdeen. I 
was prepared for something to happen, for such visions and 
dreams are fateful. In my state of mind just then, with the fears-that 
were pursuing me, it seemed fateful to me that I should have to talk 
on the importance of the unconscious at such a time! 

On August 1 the world war broke out. Now my task was clear: I had 
to try to understand what had happened and to what extent my own 
experience coincided with that of mankind in general. Therefore my 
first obligation was to probe the depths of my own psyche. I made a 
beginning by writing down the fantasies which had come to me 
during my building game. This work took precedence over 
everything else. 

An incessant stream of fantasies had been released, and I did my 
best not to lose my head but to f nd some way to understand these 
strange things. I stood helpless before an alien world; everything in 
it seemed difficult and incomprehensible. I was living in a constant 
state of tension; often I felt as if gigantic blocks of stone were 
tumbling down upon me. One thunderstorm followed another. My 
enduring these storms was a question of brute strength. Others 
have been shattered by them-Nietzsche, and Holderlin, and many 



others. But there was a demonic strength in me, and from the 
beginning there was no doubt in my mind that I must find the 
meaning of what I was experiencing in these fantasies. When I 
endured these assaults of the unconscious I had an unswerving 
conviction that I was obeying a higher will, and that feeling 
continued to uphold me til I had mastered the task. 

I was frequently so wrought up that I had to do certain yoga 
exercises in order to hold my emotions in check. But since it was 
my purpose to know what was going on within myself, I would do 
these exercises only until I had calmed myself enough to resume my 
work with the unconscious. As soon as I had the feeling that I was 
myself again, I abandoned this restraint upon the emotions and 
allowed the images and inner voices to speak afresh. The Indian, 
on the other hand, does yoga exercises in order to obliterate 
completely the multitude of psychic contents and images. 

To the extent that I managed to translate the emotions into images- 
that is to say, to find the images which were concealed in the 
emotions-l was inwardly calmed and reassured. Had I left those 
images hidden in the emotions, I might have been torn to pieces by 
them. There is a chance that I might have succeded in splitting them 
off; but in that case I would inexorably have fallen into a neurosis 
and so been ultimately destroyed by them anyhow. As a result of my 
experiment I learned how helpful it can be, from the therapeutic 
point of view, to find the particular images which lie behind 
emotions. 

I wrote down the fantasies as well as I could, and made an earnest 
effort to analyze the psychic conditions under which they had arisen. 
But I was able to do this only in clumsy language. First I formulated 
the things as I had observed them, usually in "high-flown language," 
for that corresponds to the style of the archetypes. Archetypes 
speak the language of high rhetoric, even of bombast. It is a style I 



find embarrassing; it grates on my nerves, as when someone draws 
his nails down a plaster wall, or scrapes his knife against a plate. 
But since I did not know what was going on, I had no choice but to 
write everything down in the style selected by the unconscious itself. 
Sometimes it was as if I were hearing it with my ears, sometimes 
feeling it with my mouth, as if my tongue were formulating words; 
now and then I heard myself whispering aloud. Below the threshold 
of consciousness everything was seething with life. 

From the beginning I had conceived my voluntary confrontation with 
the unconscious as a scientific experiment which I myself was 
conducting and in whose outcome I was vitally interested. Today I 
might equally well say that it was an experiment which was being 
conducted on me. One of the greatest difficulties for me lay in 
dealing with my negative feelings. I was voluntarily submitting myself 
to emotions of which I could not really approve, and I was writing 
down fantasies which often struck me as nonsense, and toward 
which I had strong resistances. For as long as we do not 
understand their meaning, such fantasies are a diabolical mixture of 
the sublime and the ridiculous. It cost me a great deal to undergo 
them, but I had been challenged by fate. Only by extreme effort was I 
finally able to escape from the labyrinth. 

In order to grasp the fantasies which were stirring in me 
"underground," I knew that I had to let myself plummet down into 
them, as it were. I felt not only violent resistance to this, but a distinct 
fear. For I was afraid of losing command of myself and becoming a 
prey to the fantasies-and as a psychiatrist I realized only too well 
what that meant. After prolonged hesitation, however, I saw that 
there was no other way out. I had to take the chance, had to try to 
gain power over them; for I realized that if I did not do so, I ran the 
risk of their gaining power over me. A cogent motive for my making 
the attempt was the conviction that I could not expect of my patients 
something I did not dare to do myself. The excuse that a helper 



stood at their side would not pass muster, for I was well aware that 
the so-called helper-that is, myself-could not help them unless he 
knew their fantasy material from his own direct experience, and that 
at present all he possessed were a few theoretical prejudices of 
dubious value. This idea-that I was committing myself to a 
dangerous enterprise not for myself alone, but also for the sake of 
my patients-helped me over several critical phases. 

It was during Advent of the year 1913-December 12, to be exact- 
that I resolved upon the decisive step. I was sitting at my desk once 
more, thinking over my fears. Then I let myself drop. Suddenly it was 
as though the ground literally gave way at my feet, and I plunged 
down into dark depths. I could not fend off a feeling of panic. But 
then, abruptly, at not too great a depth, I landed on my feet in a soft, 
sticky mass. I felt great relief, although I was apparently in complete 
darkness. After a while my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, 
which was rather like a deep twilight. Before me was the entrance 
to a dark cave, in which stood a dwarf with a leathery skin, as if he 
were mummified. I squeezed past him through the narrow entrance 
and waded knee deep through icy water to the other end in the cave 
where, on a projecting rock, I saw a glowing red crystal. I grasped 
the stone, lifted it, and discovered a hollow underneath. At first I 
could make out nothing, but then I saw that there was running water. 
In it a corpse floated by, a youth with blond hair and a wound in the 
head. He was followed by a gigantic black scarab and then by a 
red, newborn sun, rising up out of the depths of the water. Dazzled 
by the light, I wanted to replace the stone upon the opening, but then 
a fluid welled out. It was blood. A thick jet of it leaped up, and I felt 
nauseated. It seemed to me that the blood continued to spurt for an 
unendurably long time. At last it ceased, and the vision came to an 
end. 

I was stunned by this vision. I realized, of course, that it was a hero 



and solar myth, a drama of death and renewal, the rebirth 
symbolized by the Egyptian scarab. At the end, the dawn of the new 
day should have followed, but instead came that intolerable 
outpouring of blood-an altogether abnormal phenomenon, so it 
seemed to me. But then I recalled the vision of blood that I had had 
in the autumn of that same year, and I abandoned all further attempt 
to understand. 

Six days later (December 18, 1913), I had the following dream. I 
was with an unknown, brown-skinned man, a savage, I in a lonely, 
rocky mountain landscape. It was before dawn; the eastern sky was 
already bright, and the stars fading. Then I heard Siegfried's horn 
sounding over the mountains and I knew that we had to kill him. We 
were armed with rifles and lay in wait for him on a narrow path over 
the rocks. 

Then Siegfried appeared high up on the crest of the mountain, in 
the first ray of the rising sun. On a chariot made of the bones of the 
dead he drove at furious speed down the precipitous slope. When 
he turned a corner, we shot at him, and he plunged down, struck 
dead. 

Filled with disgust and remorse for having destroyed something so 
great and beautiful, I turned to flee, impelled by the fear that the 
murder might be discovered. But a tremendous downfall of rain 
began, and I knew that it would wipe out all traces of the dead. I had 
escaped the danger of discovery; life could go on, but an 
unbearable feeling of guilt remained. 

When I awoke from the dream, I turned it over in my mind but was 
unable to understand it. I tried therefore to fall asleep again, but a 
voice within me said, "You must understand the dream, and must 
do so at once!" The inner urgency mounted until the terrible moment 
came when the voice said, "If you do not understand the dream, you 



must shoot yourself!" In a drawer of my night table lay a loaded 
revolver, and I became frightened. Then I began pondering once 
again, and suddenly the meaning of the dream dawned on me. 
"Why, that is the problem that is being played out in the world." 
Siegfried, I thought, represents what the Germans want to achieve, 
heroically to impose their will, have their own way. "Where there is a 
will there is a way!" I had wanted to do the same. But now that was 
no longer possible. The dream showed that the attitude embodied 
by Siegfried, the hero, no longer suited me. Therefore it had to be 
killed. 

After the deed I felt an overpowering compassion, as though I 
myself had been shot: a sign of my secret identity with Siegfried, as 
well as of the grief a man feels when he is forced to sacrifice his 
ideal and his conscious attitudes. This identity and my heroic 
idealism had to be abandoned, for there are higher things than the 
ego's will, and to these one must bow. 

These thoughts sufficed for the present, and I fell asleep again. The 
small, brown-skinned savage who accompanied me and had 
actually taken the initiative in the killing was an embodiment of the 
primitive shadow. The rain showed that the tension between 
consciousness and the unconscious was being resolved. Although 
at the time I was not able to understand the meaning of the dream 
beyond these few hints, new forces were released in me which 
helped me to carry the experiment with the unconscious to a 
conclusion. 

In order to seize hold of the fantasies, I frequently imagined a steep 
descent. I even made several attempts to get to the very bottom. 
The first time I reached, as it were, a depth of about a thousand 
feet; the next time I found myself at the edge of a cosmic abyss. It 
was like a voyage to the moon, or a descent into empty space. First 
came the image of a crater, and I had the feeling that I was in the 



land of the dead. The atmosphere was that of the other world. Near 
the steep slope of a rock I caught sight of two figures, an old man 
with a white beard and a beautiful young girl. I summoned up my 
courage and approached them as though they were real people, 
and listened attentively to what they told me. The old man explained 
that he was Elijah, and that gave me a shock. But the girl staggered 
me even more, for she called herself Salome! She was blind. What 
a strange couple: Salome and Elijah. But Elijah assured me that he 
and Salome had belonged together from all eternity, which 
completely astounded me... They had a black serpent living with 
them which displayed an unmistakable fondness for me. I stuck 
close to Elijah because he seemed to be the most reasonable of 
the three, and to have a clear intelligence. Of Salome was distinctly 
suspicious. Elijah and I had a long conversation which, however, I 
did not understand. 

Naturally I tried to find a plausible explanation for the appearance of 
Biblical figures in my fantasy by reminding myself that my father had 
been a clergyman. But that really explained nothing at all. For what 
did the old man signify? What did Salome signify? Why were they 
together? Only many years later, when I knew a great deal more 
than I knew then, did the connection between the old man and the 
young girl appear perfectly natural to me. 

In such dream wanderings one frequently encounters an old man 
who is accompanied by a young girl, and examples of such couples 
are to be found in many mythic tales. Thus, according to Gnostic 
tradition, Simon Magus went about with a young girl whom he had 
picked up in a brothel. Her name was Helen, and she was regarded 
as the reincarnation of the Trojan Helen. Klingsor and Kundry, Lao- 
tzu and the dancing girl, likewise belong to this category. 

I have mentioned that there was a third figure in my fantasy besides 
Elijah and Salome: the large black snake. In myths the snake is a 



frequent counterpart of the hero. There are numerous accounts of 
their affinity. For example, the hero has eyes like a snake, or after 
his death he is changed into a snake and revered as such, or the 
snake is his mother, etc. In my fantasy, therefore, the presence of 
the snake was an indication of a hero-myth. Salome is an anima 
figure. She is blind because she does not see the meaning of 
things. Elijah is the figure of the wise old prophet and represents the 
factor of intelligence and knowledge; Salome, the erotic element. 
One might say that the two figures are personifications of Logos 
and Eros. But such a definition would be excessively intellectual. It 
is more meaningful to let the figures be what they were for me at the 
time-namely, -events and experiences. 

Soon after this fantasy another figure rose out of the unconscious. 
He developed out of the Elijah figure. I called him Philemon. 
Philemon was a pagan and brought with him an Egypto-Hellenistic 
atmosphere with a Gnostic coloration. His figure first appeared to 
me in the following dream. 

There was a blue sky, like the sea, covered not by clouds but by flat 
brown clods of earth. It looked as if the clods were breaking apart 
and the blue water of the sea were becoming visible between them. 
But the water was the blue sky. Suddenly there appeared from the 
right a winged being sailing across the sky. I saw that it was an old 
man with the horns of a bull. He held a bunch of four keys, one of 
which he clutched as if he were about to open a lock. He had the 
wings of the kingfisher with its characteristic colors. 

Since I did not understand this dream-image, I painted it in order to 
impress it upon my memory. During the days when I was occupied 
with the painting, I found in my garden, by the lake shore, a dead 
kingfisher! I was thunderstruck, for king- fishers are quite rare in the 
vicinity of Zurich and I have never since found a dead one. The body 
was recently dead-at the most, two or three days-and showed no 



external injuries. 

Philemon and other figures of my fantasies brought home to me the 
crucial insight that there are things in the psyche which I do not 
produce, but which produce themselves and have their own life. 
Philemon represented a force which was not myself. In my fantasies 
I held conversations with him, and he said things which I had not 
consciously thought. For I observed clearly that it was he who 
spoke, not I. He said I treated thoughts as if I generated them 
myself, but in his view thoughts were like animals in the forest, or 
people in a room, or birds in the air, and added, "If you should see 
people in a room, you would not think that you had made those 
people, or that you were responsible for them." It was he who taught 
me psychic objectivity, the reality of the psyche. Through him the 
distinction was clarified between myself and the object of my 
thought. He confronted me in an objective manner, and I understood 
that there is something in me which can say things that I do not 
know and do not intend, things which may even be directed against 
me. 

Psychologically, Philemon represented superior insight. He was a 
mysterious figure to me. At times he seemed to me quite real, as if 
he were a living personality. I went walking up and down the garden 
with him, and to me he was what the Indians Call a guru. 

Whenever the outlines of a new personification appeared, I felt it 
almost as a personal defeat. It meant: "Here is something else you 
didn't know until now!" Fear crept over me that the succession of 
such figures might be endless, that I might lose myself in bottomless 
abysses of ignorance. My ego felt devalued-although the 
successes I had been having in worldly affair might have reassured 
me. In my darknesses (horridas nostrae mentis purga tenebras- 
"cleanse the horrible darknesses of mind"-the Aurora Consurgens 
[4] says) I could have wished for nothing better than a real, live guru, 



someone possessing superior knowledge and ability, who would 
have disentangled for me the involuntary creations of my 
imagination. This task undertaken by the figure of Philemon, whom 
in this respect I had willy-nilly to recognize as my psychagogue. And 
the fact was that he conveyed to me many an illuminating idea. 

More than fifteen years later a highly cultivated elderly Indian visited 
me, a friend of Gandhi's, and we talked about Indian education-in 
particular, about the relationship between guru and chela. I 
hesitantly asked him whether he could tell me anything about the 
person and character of his own guru, whereppon he replied in a 
matter-of-fact tone, "Oh yes, he was shankaracharya." 

"You don't mean the commentator on the Vedas who died centuries 
ago?" I asked. 

"Yes, I mean him," he said, to my amazement. 

"Then you are referring to a spirit?" I asked. 

"Of course it was his spirit," he agreed. 

At that moment I thought of Philemon. 

"There are ghostly gurus too," he added. "Most people have living 
gurus. But there are always some who have a spirit for teacher." 

This information was both illuminating and reassuring to me. 
Evidently, then, I had not plummeted right out of the human world, 
but had only experienced the sort of thing that could happen to 
others who made similar efforts. 

Later, Philemon became relativized by the emergence of yet 
another figure, whom I called Ka. In ancient Egypt the "king's ka" 
was his earthly form, the embodied soul. In my fantasy the ka-soul 



came from below, out of the earth as if out of a deep shaft. I did a 
painting of him, showing him in his earth-bound form, as a herm 
with base of stone and upper part of bronze. 

4 An alchemical treatise ascribed to Thomas Aquinas. 

High up in the painting appears a kingfisher's wing, and between it 
and the head of Ka floats a round, glowing nebula of Stars. Ka's 
expression has something demonic about it-one might also say, 
Mephistophelian. In one hand he holds something like a colored 
pagoda, or a reliquary, and in the other a stylus with which he is 
working on the reliquary. He is saying, "I am he who buries the gods 
in gold and gems." 

Philemon had a lame foot, but was a winged spirit, whereas Ka 
represented a kind of earth demon or metal demon. Philemon was 
the spiritual aspect, or "meaning." Ka, on the other hand, was a 
spirit of nature like the Anthroparion of Greek alchemy-with which 
at the time I was still unfamiliar? Ka was he who made everything 
real, but who also obscured the halcyon spirit, Meaning, or replaced 
it by beauty, the "eternal reflection." 

In time I was able to integrate both figures through the study of 
alchemy. 

When I was writing down these fantasies, I once asked myself, 
"What am I really doing? Certainly this has nothing to do with 
science. But then what is it?" Whereupon a voice within me said, "It 
is art." I was astonished. It had never entered my head that what I 
was writing had any connection with art. Then I thought, "Perhaps 
my unconscious is forming a personality that is not me, but which is 
insisting on coming through to expression." I knew for a certainty 
that the voice had come from a woman. 1 recognized it as the voice 
of a patient, a talented psychopath who had a strong transference 



to me. She had become a living ligure within my mind. 

Obviously what I was doing wasn't science. What then could it be 
but art? It was as though these were the only alternatives in the 
world. That is the way a woman's mind works. I said very 
emphatically to this voice that my fantasies had 

5 The Anthroparion is a tiny man, a kind of homunculus. He is found, for 
example, in the ysions of Zbsimos of Panopolis, an important alchemist of 
the third century. To the group which includes the Anthroparion belong the 
gnomes, the Dactyls of Classical antiquity, and the homunculi of the 
alchemists. As the spirit of quick-sil\«r, the alchemical Mercurius was also 
an Anthroparion. -A. J. 

nothing to do with art, and I felt a great inner resistance. No voice 
came through, however, and I kept on writing. Then came the next 
assault, and again the same assertion: "That is art." This time I 
caught her and said, "No, it is not art! On the contrary, it is nature," 
and prepared myself for an argument. When nothing of the sort 
occurred, I reflected that the "woman within me" did not have the 
speech centers I had. And so I suggested that she use mine. She 
did so and came through with a long statement. 

I was greatly intrigued by the fact that a woman should interfere with 
me from within. My conclusion was that she must be the "soul," in 
the primitive sense, and I began to speculate on the reasons why 
the name "anima" was given to the soul. Why was it thought of as 
feminine? Later I came to see that this inner feminine figure plays a 
typical, or archetypal, role in the unconscious of a man, and I called 
her the "anima." The corresponding figure in the unconscious of 
woman I called the "animus." 

At first it was the negative aspect of the anima that most impressed 
me. I felt a little awed by her. It was like the feeling of an invisible 
presence in the room. Then a new idea came to me: in putting 



down all this material for analysis I was in effect writing letters to the 
anima, that is, to a part of myself with a different viewpoint from my 
conscious one. I got remarks of an unusual and unexpected 
character. I was like a patient in analysis with a ghost and a woman! 
Every evening I wrote very conscientiously, for I thought if I did not 
write, there would be no way for the anima to get at my fantasies. 
Also, by writing them out I gave her no chance to twist them into 
intrigues. There is a tremendous difference between intending to 
tell something and actually telling it. In order to be as honest as 
possible with myself, I wrote everything down very carefully, 
following the old Greek maxim: "Give away all that thou hast, then 
shalt thou receive." 

Often, as I was writing, I would have peculiar reactions that threw 
me off. Slowly I learned to distinguish between myself and the 
interruption. When something emotionally vulgar or banal came up, I 
would say to myself, "It is perfectly true that I have thought and felt 
this way at some time or other, but I don't have to think and feel that 
way now. I need not accept this banality of mine in perpetuity; that is 
an unnecessary humiliation." 

The essential thing is to differentiate oneself from these 
unconscious contents by personifying them, and at the same time to 
bring them into relationship with consciousness. That is the 
technique for stripping them of their power. It is not too difficult to 
personify them, as they always possess a certain degree of 
autonomy, a separate identity of their own. Their autonomy is a 
most uncomfortable thing to reconcile oneself to, and yet the very 
fact that the unconscious presents itself in that way gives us the 
best means of handling it. 

What the anima said seemed to me full of a deep cunning. If I had 
taken these fantasies of the unconscious as art, they would have 
carried no more conviction than visual perceptions, as if I were 



watching a movie. I would have felt no moral obligation toward 
them. The anima might then have easily seduced me into believing 
that I was a misunderstood artist, and that my so-called artistic 
nature gave me the right to neglect reality. If I had followed her 
voice, she would in all probability have said to me one day, "Do you 
imagine the nonsense you're engaged in is really art? Not a bit." 
Thus the insinuations of the anima, the mouthpiece of the 
unconscious, can utterly destroy a man. In the final analysis the 
decisive factor is always consciousness, which can understand the 
manifestations of the unconscious and take up a position toward 
them. 

But the anima has a positive aspect as well. It is she who 
communicates the images of the unconscious to the conscious 
mind, and that is what I chiefly valued her for. For decades I always 
turned to the anima when I felt that my emotional behavior was 
disturbed, and that something had been constellated in the 
unconscious. I would then ask the anima: "Now what are you up to? 
What do you see? I should like to know." After some resistance she 
regularly produced an image. As soon as the image was there, the 
unrest or the sense of oppression vanished. The whole energy of 
these emotions was transformed into interest in and curiosity about 
the image. I would speak with the anima about the images she 
communicated to me, for I had to try to understand them as best I 
could, just like a dream. 

Today I no longer need these conversations with the anima, for I no 
longer have such emotions. But if I did have them, I would deal with 
them in the same way. Today I am directly conscious of the anima's 
ideas because I have learned to accept the contents of the 
unconscious and to understand them. I know how I must behave 
toward the inner images. I can read their meaning directly from my 
dreams, and therefore no longer need a mediator to communicate 
them. 



I wrote these fantasies down first in the Black Book; later, I 
transferred them to the Red Book, which I also embellished with 
drawings? It contains most of my mandala drawings. In the Red 
Book I tried an esthetic elaboration of my fantasies, but never 
finished it. I became aware that I had not yet found the right 
language, that I still had to translate it into something else. 
Therefore I gave up this estheticizing tendency in good time, in 
favor of a rigorous process of understanding. I saw that I so much 
fantasy needed firm ground underfoot, and that I must first return 
wholly to reality. For me, reality meant scientific comprehension. I 
had to draw concrete conclusions from the insights the unconscious 
had given me-and that task was to become a life work. 

It is of course ironical that I, a psychiatrist, should at almost every 
step of my experiment have run into the same psychic material 
which is the stuff of psychosis and is found in the insane. This is the 
fund of unconscious images which fatally confuse the mental 
patient. But it is also the matrix of a mythopoeic imagination which 
has vanished from our rational age. Though such imagination is 
present everywhere, it is both tabooed and dreaded, so that it even 
appears to be a risky experiment or a questionable adventure to 
entrust oneself to the uncertain path that leads into the depths of the 
unconscious. It is considered the path of error, of equivocation and 
misunderstanding. I am reminded of Goethe's words: "Now let me 
dare to open wide the 

6 The Black Book consists of six blackbound, smallish leather notebooks. 
The Red Book, a folio \clume bound in red leather, contains the same 
fantasies couched in elaborately literary form and language, and set down in 
calligraphic Gothic script, in the manner of medieval manuscripts. -A. J. 

gate / Past which men's steps have ever flinching trod."[7] The 
second part of Faust, too, was more than a literary exercise. It is a 



link in the Aurea Catena [8] which has existed from the beginnings 
of philosophical alchemy and Gnosticism down to Nietzsche's 
Zarathustra. Unpopular, ambiguous, and dangerous, it is a voyage 
of discovery to the other pole of the world. Particularly at this time, 
when I was working on the fantasies, I needed a point of support in 
"this world," and I may say that my family and my professional work 
were that to me. It was most essential for me to have a normal life in 
the real world as a counterpoise to that strange inner world. My 
family and my profession remained the base to which I could always 
return, assuring me that I was an actually existing, ordinary person. 
The unconscious contents could have driven me out of my wits. But 
my family, and the knowledge: I have a medical diploma from a 
Swiss university, I must help my patients, I have a wife and five 
children, I live at 228 Seestrasse in Kusnacht-these were 
actualities which made demands upon me and proved to me again 
and again that I really existed, that I was not a blank page whirling 
about in the winds of the spirit, like Nietzsche. Nietzsche had lost 
the ground under his feet because he possessed nothing more than 
the inner world of his thoughts-which incidentally possessed him 
more than he it. He was uprooted and hovered above the earth, and 
therefore he succumbed to exaggeration and irreality. For me, such 
irreality was the quintessence of horror, for I aimed, after all, at this 
world and this life. No matter how deeply absorbed or how blown 
about I was, I always knew that everything I was experiencing was 
ultimately directed at this real life of mine. I meant to meet its 
obligations and fulfill its meanings. My watchword was: Hie Rhodus, 
hicsalta! 

Thus my family and my profession always remained a joyful reality 
and a guarantee that I also had a normal existence. Very gradually 
the outlines of an inner change began making their appearance 
within me. In 1916 I felt an urge to give shape 

7 Faust, Part One. 



8 The Golden (or Homeric) Chain in alchemy is the series of great wise 
men, beginning with Hermes Trismegistos, which links earth with hea\en-A. 
J. 

to something. I was compelled from within, as it were, to formulate 
and express what might have been said by Philemon. This was how 
the Septem Sermones ed Mortuos" with its peculiar language 
came into being. 

It began with a restlessness, but I did not know what it meant or 
what "they" wanted of me. There was an ominous atmosphere all 
around me. I had the strange feeling that the air was filled with 
ghostly entities. Then it was as if my house began to be haunted. 
My eldest daughter saw a white figure passing through the room. 
My second daughter, independently of her elder sister, related that 
twice in the night her blanket had been snatched away; and that 
same night my nine-year-old son had an anxiety dream. In the 
morning he asked his mother for crayons, and he, who ordinarily 
never drew, now made a picture of his dream. He called it "The 
Picture of the Fisherman." Through the middle of the picture ran a 
river, and a fisherman with a rod was standing on the shore. He had 
caught a fish. On the fisherman's head was a chimney from which 
flames were leaping and smoke rising. From the other side of the 
river the devil came flying through the air. He was cursing because 
his fish had been stolen. But above the fisherman hovered an angel 
who said, "You cannot do anything to him; he only catches the bad 
fish!" My son drew this picture on a Saturday. 

Around five o'clock in the afternoon on Sunday the front doorbell 
began ringing frantically. It was a bright summer day; the two maids 
were in the kitchen, from which the open square outside the front 
door could be seen. Everyone immediately looked to see who was 
there, but there was no one in sight. I was sitting near the doorbell, 
and not only heard it but saw it moving. We all simply stared at one 



another. The atmosphere was thick, believe mel Then I knew that 
something had to happen. The whole house was filled as if there 
were a crowd present, crammed full of spirits. They were packed 
deep right up to the door, and the air was so thick it was scarcely 
possible to breathe. As for myself, I was all a-quiver with the 
question: "For God's 

9 Privately printed (n.d.) and pseudonymously subtitled "The Seven 
Sermons to the Dead written by Basilides in Alexandria, the City where the 
East toucheth the West" (see Appendix V). 

sake, what in the world is this?" Then they cried out in chorus, "We 
have come back from Jerusalem where we found not what we 
sought." That is the beginning of the Septem Sermones. 

Then it began to flow out of me, and in the course of three evenings 
the thing was written. As soon as I took up the pen, the whole 
ghostly assemblage evaporated. The room quieted and the 
atmosphere cleared. The haunting was over. 

The experience has to be taken for what it was, or as it seems to 
have been. No doubt it was connected with the state of emotion I 
was in at the time, and which was favorable to parapsychological 
phenomena. It was an unconscious constellation whose peculiar 
atmosphere I recognized as the numen of an archetype. "It walks 
abroad, it's in the air!"[10] The intellect, of course, would like to 
arrogate to itself some scientific, physical knowledge of the affair, 
or, preferably, to write the whole thing off as a violation of the rules. 
But what a dreary world it would be if the rules were not violated 
sometimes! 

Shortly before this experience I had written down a fantasy of my 
soul having flown away from me. This was a significant event: the 
soul, the anima, establishes the relationship to the unconscious. In a 
certain sense this is also a relationship to the collectivity of the 



dead; for the unconscious corresponds to the mythic land of the 
dead, the land of the ancestors. If, therefore, one has a fantasy of 
the soul vanishing, this means that it has withdrawn into the 
unconscious or into the land of the dead. There it produces a 
mysterious animation and gives visible form to the ancestral traces, 
the collective contents. Like a medium, it gives the dead a chance 
to manifest themselves. Therefore, soon after the disappearance of 
my soul the "dead" appeared to me, and the result was the Septem 
Sermones. This is an example of what is called "loss of soul"-a 
phenomenon encountered quite frequently among primitives. 

From that time on, the dead have become ever more distinct for me 
as the voices of the Unanswered, Unresolved, and Unredeemed; 
for since the questions and demands which my destiny required me 
to answer did not come to me from outside, 

10 Faust, Part Two. 

they must have come from the inner world. These conversations 
with the dead formed a kind of prelude to what I had to 
communicate to the world about the unconscious: a kind of pattern 
of order and interpretation of its general contents. 

When I look back upon it all today and consider what happened to 
me during the period of my work on the fantasies, it seems as 
though a message had come to me with overwhelming force. There 
were things in the images which concerned not only myself but 
many others also. It was then that I ceased to belong to myself 
alone, ceased to have the right to do so. From then on, my life 
belonged to the generality. The knowledge I was concerned with, or 
was seeking, still could not be found in the science of those days. I 
myself had to undergo the original experience, and, moreover, try to 
plant the results of my experience in the soil of reality; otherwise 
they would have remained subjective assumptions without validity. It 



was then that I dedicated myself to service of the psyche. I loved it 
and hated it, but it was my greatest wealth. My delivering myself 
over to it, as it were, was the only way by which I could endure my 
existence and live it as fully as possible. 

Today I can say that I have never lost touch with my initial 
experiences. All my works, all my creative activity, has come from 
those initial fantasies and dreams which began in 1912, almost fifty 
years ago. Everything that I accomplished in later life was already 
contained in them, although at first only in the form of emotions and 
images. 

My science was the only way I had of extricating myself from that 
chaos. Otherwise the material would have trapped me in its thicket, 
strangled me like jungle creepers. I took great care to try to 
understand every single image, every item of my psychic inventory, 
and to classify them scientifically-so far as this was possible-and, 
above all, to realize them in actual life. That is what we usually 
neglect to do. We allow the images to rise up, and maybe we 
wonder about them, but that is all. We do not take the trouble to 
understand them, let alone draw ethical conclusions from them. This 
stopping-short conjures up the negative effects of the unconscious. 

It is equally a grave mistake to think that it is enough to gain some 
understanding of the images and that knowledge can here make a 
halt. Insight into them must be converted into an ethical obligation. 
Not to do so is to fall prey to the power principle, and this produces 
dangerous effects which are destructive not only to others but even 
to the knower. The images of the unconscious place a great 
responsibility upon a man. Failure to understand them, or a shirking 
of ethical responsibility, deprives him of his wholeness and 
imposes a painful fragmentariness on his life. 

In the midst of this period when I was so preoccupied with the 



images of the unconscious, I came to the decision to withdraw from 
the university, where I had lectured for eight years as Privatdozent 
(since 1905). My experience and experiments with the unconscious 
had brought my intellectual activity to a standstill. After the 
completion of The Psychology of the Unconscious.[11] I found 
myself utterly incapable of reading a scientific book. This went on 
for three years. I felt I could no longer keep up with the world of the 
intellect, nor would I have been able to talk about what really 
preoccupied me. The material brought to light from the unconscious 
had, almost literally, struck me dumb. [12] I could neither understand 
it nor give it form. At the university I was in an exposed position, and 
felt that in order to go on giving courses there I would first have to 
find an entirely new and different orientation. It would be unfair to 
continue teaching young students when my own intellectual situation 
was nothing but a mass of doubts. 

I therefore felt that I was confronted with the choice of either 
continuing my academic career, whose road lay smooth before me, 
or following the laws of my inner personality, of a higher reason, and 
forging ahead with this curious task of mine, this experiment in 
confrontation with the unconscious. But until it was completed I 
could not appear before the public. 

11 See above, Chap. V, n. 5, p. 155. 

12 During this "fallow period" Jung wrote very little: a handful of papers in 
English, and the very important first versions of the essays published in 
English translation as Two Essays on Analytical Psychology (CW 7). The 
period came to an end with the publication of Psychologische Typen in 1921 
(English trans.; Psychological Types, CW6.)-A.J. 

Consciously, deliberately, then, I abandoned my academic career. 
For I felt that something great was happening to me, and I put my 
trust in the thing which I felt to be more important sub specie 
aeternitatis. I knew that it would fill my life, and for the sake of that 
goal I was ready to take any kind of risk. 



What, after all, did it matter whether or not I became a professor? 
Of course it bothered me to have to give this up; in many respects I 
regretted that I could not confine myself to generally understandable 
material. I even had moments when I stormed against destiny. But 
emotions of this kind are transitory, and do not count. The other 
thing, on the contrary, is important, and if we pay heed to what the 
inner personality desires and says, the sting vanishes. That is 
something I have experienced again and again, not only when I 
gave up my academic career. Indeed, I had my first experiences of 
this sort as a child. In my youth I was hot-tempered; but whenever 
the emotion had reached its climax, suddenly it swung around and 
there followed a cosmic stillness. At such times I was remote from 
everything, and what had only a moment before excited me seemed 
to belong to a distant past. 

The consequence of my resolve, and my involvement with things 
which neither I nor anyone else could understand, was an extreme 
loneliness. I was going about laden with thoughts of which I could 
speak to no one: they would only have been misunderstood. I felt 
the gulf between the external world and the interior world of images 
in its most painful form. I could not yet see that interaction of both 
worlds which I now understand. I saw only an irreconcilable 
contradiction between "inner" and "outer." 

However, it was clear to me from the start that I could find contact 
with the outer world and with people only if I succeeded in showing- 
and this would demand the most intensive effort-that the contents 
of psychic experience are real, and real not only as my own 
personal experiences, but as collective experiences which others 
also have. Later I tried to demonstrate this in my scientific work, and 
I did all in my power to convey to my intimates a new way of seeing 
things. I knew that if I did not succeed, I would be condemned to 
absolute isolation. 



It was only toward the end of the First World War that I gradually 
began to emerge from the darkness. Two events contributed to this. 
The first was that I broke with the woman who was determined to 
convince me that my fantasies had artistic value; the second and 
principal event was that I began to understand mandala drawings. 
This happened in 1918-19. I had painted the first mandala [13] in 
1916 after writing the Septem Sermones; naturally I had not, then, 
understood it. 

In 1918-19 I was in Chateau d'Oex as Commandant de la Region 
Anglaise des Internes de Guerre. While I was there I sketched every 
morning in a notebook a small circular drawing, a mandala, which 
seemed to correspond to my inner situation at the time. With the 
help of these drawings I could observe my psychic transformations 
from day to day. One day, for example, I received a letter from that 
esthetic lady in which she again stubbornly maintained that the 
fantasies arising from my unconscious had artistic value and should 
be considered art. The letter got on my nerves. It was far from 
stupid, and therefore dangerously persuasive. The modern artist, 
after all, seeks to create art out of the unconscious. The 
utilitarianism and self-importance concealed behind this thesis 
touched a doubt in myself, namely, my uncertainty as to whether the 
fantasies I was producing were really spontaneous and natural, and 
not ultimately my own arbitrary inventions. I was by no means free 
from the bigotry and hubris of consciousness which wants to 
believe that any halfway decent inspiration is due to one's own 
merit, whereas inferior reactions come merely by chance, or even 
derive from alien sources. Out of this irritation and disharmony 
within myself there proceeded, the following day, a changed 
mandala: part of the periphery had burst open and the Symmetry 
was destroyed. 

Only gradually did I discover what the mandala really is: 



13 Reproduced as the frontispiece to The Archetypes and the Collective 
Unconscious (CW g, 1).-A. J. 

"Formation, Transformation, Eternal Mind's eternal recreation."[14] 
And that is the self, the wholeness of the personality, which if all 
goes well is harmonious, but which cannot tolerate self-deceptions. 

My mandalas were cryptograms concerning the state of the self 
which were presented to me anew each day. In them I saw the self- 
that is, my whole being-actively at work. To be sure, at first I could 
only dimly understand them; but they seemed to me highly 
significant, and I guarded them like precious pearls. I had the 
distinct feeling that they were something central, and in time I 
acquired through them a living conception of the self. The self, I 
thought, was like the monad which I am, and which is my world. The 
mandala represents this monad, and corresponds to the 
microcosmic nature of the psyche. 

I no longer know how many mandalas I drew at this time. There 
were a great many. While I was working on them, the question 
arose repeatedly: What is this process leading to? Where is its 
goal? From my own experience, I knew by now that I could not 
presume to choose a goal which would seem trustworthy to me. It 
had been proved to me that I had to abandon the idea of the 
superordinate position of the ego. After all, I had been brought up 
short when I had attempted to maintain it. I had wanted to go on with 
the scientific analysis of myths which I had begun in Wandlungen 
und Symbole. That was still my goal-but I must not think of that! I 
was being compelled to go through this process of the 
unconscious. I had to let myself be carried along by the current, 
without a notion of where it would lead me. When I began drawing 
the mandalas, however, I saw that everything, all the paths I had 
been following, all the steps I had taken, were leading back to a 



single point-namely, to the mid-point. It became increasingly plain 
to me that the mandala is the center. It is the exponent of all paths. It 
is the path to the center, to individuation. 

During those years, between 1918 and 1920, 1 began to understand 
that the goal of psychic development is the self. There is no linear 
evolution; there is only a circumambulation of the self. 

14 Faust, Part Two, trans, by Philip Wayne (Harmondsworth, 
England, Penguin Books Ltd., 1959), p. 79. 

Uniform development exists, at most, only at the beginning; later, 
everything points toward the center. This insight gave me stability, 
and gradually my inner peace returned. I knew that in finding the 
mandala as an expression of the self I had attained what was for 
me the ultimate. Perhaps someone else knows more, but not I. 

Some years later (in 1927) I obtained confirmation of my ideas 
about the center and the self by way of a dream. I represented its 
essence in a mandala which I called "Window on Eternity? The 
picture is reproduced in The Secret of the Golden Flower (Fig. 
3).[15] A year later I painted a second picture, like wise a 
mandala, [16] with a golden castle in the center. When it was 
finished, I asked myself, "Why is this so Chinese?" I was impressed 
by the form and choice of colors, which seemed to me Chinese, 
although there was nothing outwardly Chinese about it. Yet that was 
how it affected me. It was a strange coincidence that shortly 
afterward I received a letter from Richard Wilhelm enclosing the 
manuscript of a Taoist-alchemical treatise entitled The Secret of the 
Golden Flower, with a request that I write a commentary on it. I 
devoured the manuscript at once, for the text gave me undreamed- 
of confirmation of my ideas about the mandala and the 
circumambulation of the center. That was the first event which broke 
through my isolation. I became aware of an affinity; I could establish 



ties with something and someone." 

In remembrance of this coincidence, this "synchronicity," I wrote 
underneath the picture which had made so Chinese an impression 
upon me: "In 1928, when I was painting this picture, showing the 
golden, well-fortified castle, Richard Wilhelm in Frankfurt sent me 
the thousand-year-old Chinese text on the yellow castle, the germ of 
the immortal body." 

This is the dream I mentioned earlier: I found myself in a dirty, sooty 
city. It was night, and winter, and dark, and raining. 

15 Cf. "Concerning Mandala Symbolism? in The Archetypes and the 
Collective Unconscious (CW 9, i, ), tig. 6 and pp. 363 ff. 

16 The Secret of the Golden Flower, Eg. 10. See also "Concerning Mandala 
Symbolism," fig. 36 and p. 377. 

17 On Richard Wilhelm, see Appendix IV, pp. 373-77. 

I was in Liverpool. With a number of Swiss-say, half a dozen-l 
walked through the dark streets. I had the feeling that there we were 
coming from the harbor, and that the real city was actually up above, 
on the cliffs. We climbed up there. It reminded me of Basel, where 
the market is down below and then you go up through the 
Totengasschen ("Alley of the Dead"), which leads to a plateau 
above and so to the Petersplatz and the Peterskirche. When we 
reached the plateau, we found a broad square dimly illuminated by 
street lights, into which many streets converged. The various 
quarters of the city were arranged radially around the square. In the 
center was a round pool, and in the middle of it a small island. 
While everything round about was obscured by rain, fog, smoke, 
and dimly lit darkness, the little island blazed with sunlight. On it 
stood a single tree, a magnolia, in a shower of reddish blossoms. It 
was as though the tree stood in the sunlight and were at the same 
time the source of light. My companions commented on the 
abominable weather, and obviously did not see the tree. They 



spoke of another Swiss who was living in Liverpool, and expressed 
surprise that he should have settled here. I was carried away by the 
beauty of the flowering tree and the sunlit island, and thought, "I 
know very well why he has settled here." Then I awoke. 

On one detail of the dream I must add a supplementary comment: 
the individual quarters of the city were themselves arranged radially 
around a central point. This point formed a small open square 
illuminated by a larger street lamp, and constituted a small replica 
of the island. I knew that the "other Swiss" lived in the vicinity of one 
of these secondary centers. 

This dream represented my situation at the time. I can still see the 
grayish-yellow raincoats, glistening with the wetness of the rain. 
Everything was extremely unpleasant, black and opaque-just as I 
felt then. But I had had a vision of unearthly beauty, and that was 
why I was able to live at all. Liverpool is the "pool of life." The "liver," 
according to an old view, is the seat of life— that which "makes to 
live." 

This dream brought with it a sense of finality. I saw that here the 
goal had been revealed. One could not go beyond the center. The 
center is the goal, and everything is directed toward that center. 
Through this dream I understood that the self is the principle and 
archetype of orientation and meaning. Therein lies its healing 
function. For me, this insight signified an approach to the center 
and therefore to the goal. Out of it emerged a first inkling of my 
personal myth. 

After this dream I gave up drawing or painting mandalas. The 
dream depicted the climax of the whole process of development of 
consciousness. It satisfied me completely, for it gave a total picture 
of my situation. I had known, to be sure, that I was occupied with 
something important, but I still lacked understanding, and there had 



been no one among my associates who could have understood. 
The clarification brought about by the dream made it possible for 
me to take an objective view of the things that filled my being. 

Without such a vision I might perhaps have lost my orientation and 
been compelled to abandon my undertaking. But here the meaning 
had been made clear. When I parted from Freud, I knew that I was 
plunging into the unknown. Beyond Freud, after all, I knew nothing; 
but I had taken the step into darkness. When that happens, and then 
such a dream comes, one feels it as an act of grace. 

It has taken me virtually forty-five years to distill within the vessel of 
my scientific work the things I experienced and wrote down at that 
time. As a young man my goal had been to accomplish something 
in my science. But then, I hit upon this stream of lava, and the heat 
of its fires reshaped my life. That was the primal stuff which 
compelled me to work upon it, and my works are a more or less 
successful endeavor to incorporate this incandescent matter into 
the contemporary picture of the world. 

The years when I was pursuing my inner images were the most 
important in my life — in them everything essential was decided. It all 
began then; the later details are only supplements and clarifications 
of the material that burst forth from the unconscious, and at first 
swamped me. It was the primo materia for a lifetime's work. 



VII 



The Work 



AS MY LIFE entered its second half, I was already embarked on the 
confrontation with the contents of the unconscious. My work on this 
was an extremely long-drawn-out affair, and it was only after some 
twenty years of it that I reached some degree of understanding of 
my fantasies. 

First I had to find evidence for the historical prefiguration of my inner 
experiences. That is to say, I had to ask myself, "Where have my 
particular premises already occurred in history?" If I had not 
succeeded in finding such evidence, I would never have been able 
to substantiate my ideas. Therefore, my encounter with alchemy 
was decisive for me, as it provided me with the historical basis 
which I had hitherto lacked. 

Analytical psychology is fundamentally a natural science, but it is 
subject far more than any other science to the personal bias of the 
observer. The psychologist must depend therefore in the highest 
degree upon historical and literary parallels if he wishes to exclude 
at least the crudest errors in judgment. Between 1918 and 1926 I 
had seriously studied the Gnostic writers, for they too had been 
confronted with the primal world of the unconscious and had dealt 
with its contents, with images that were obviously contaminated with 
the world of instinct. Just how they understood these images 
remains difficult to say, in view of the paucity of the accounts which, 
moreover, mostly stem from their opponents, the Church Fathers. It 
seems to me highly unlikely that they had a psychological 
conception of them. But the Gnostics were too remote for me to 
establish any link with them in regard to the questions that were 



confronting me. As far as I could see, the tradition that might have 
connected Gnosis with the present seemed to have been severed, 
and for a long time it proved impossible to find any bridge that led 
from Gnosticism or neo-Platonism to the contemporary world. But 
when I began to understand alchemy I realized that it represented 
the historical link with Gnosticism, and that a continuity therefore 
existed between past and present. Grounded in the natural 
philosophy of the Middle Ages, alchemy formed the bridge on the 
one hand into the past, to Gnosticism, and on the other into the 
future, to the modern psychology of the unconscious. 

This had been inaugurated by Freud, who had introduced along 
with it the classical Gnostic motifs of sexuality and the wicked 
paternal authority. The motif of the Gnostic Yahweh and Creator- 
God reappeared in the Freudian myth of the primal father and the 
gloomy superego deriving from that father. In Freud's myth he 
became a daemon who created a world of disappointments, 
illusions, and suffering. But the materialistic trend which had already 
come to light in the alchemists' preoccupation with the secrets of 
matter had the effect of obscuring for Freud that other essential 
aspect of Gnosticism: the primordial image of the spirit as another, 
higher god who gave to mankind the krater (mixing vessel), the 
vessel of spiritual transformational] The krater is a feminine 
principle which could find no place in Freud's patriarchal world. 
Incidentally, he is by no means alone in this prejudice, In the realm 
of Catholic 

1 In the writings of Poimandres, a pagan Gnostic, the footer was a vessel 
filled with spirit, which the Creator-god sent down to earth so that those who 
strove for higher consciousness might be baptized in it. It was a kind of 
uterus of spiritual renewal and rebirth, and corresponded to the alchemical 
'vas' in which the transformation of substances took place. The parallel to 
this in Jung's psychology is the inner transformation process known as 
individuation (see glossary). A. J. 



thought the Mother of God and Bride of Christ has been received 
into the divine thalamus (bridal chamber) only recently, after 
centuries of hesitancy, and thus at least been accorded partial 
recognition.[2] But in the Protestant and Jewish spheres the father 
continues to dominate as much as ever. In philosophical alchemy, 
on the other hand, the feminine principle plays a role equal to that of 
the masculine. 

Before I discovered alchemy, I had a series of dreams which 
repeatedly dealt with the same theme. Beside my house stood 
another, that is to say, another wing or annex, which was strange to 
me. Each time I would wonder in my dream why I did not know this 
house, although it had apparently always been there. Finally came a 
dream in which I reached the other wing. I discovered there a 
wonderful library, dating largely from the sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries. Large, fat folio volumes, bound in pigskin, stood along 
the walls. Among them were a number of books embellished with 
copper engravings of a strange character, and illustrations 
containing curious symbols such as I had never seen before. At the 
time I did not know to what they referred; only much later did I 
recognize them as alchemical symbols. In the dream I was 
conscious only of the fascination exerted by them and by the entire 
library. It was a collection of medieval incunabula and sixteenth- 
century prints. 

The unknown wing of the house was a part of my personality, an 
aspect of myself; it represented something that belonged to me but 
of which I was not yet conscious. It, and especially the library, 
referred to alchemy, of which I was ignorant, but which I was soon to 
study. Some fifteen years later I had assembled a library very like 
the one in the dream. 

The crucial dream anticipating my encounter with alchemy came 
around 1926: I was in the South Tyrol. It was wartime. I was on the 



Italian front and driving back from the front line 

2 This refers to the Papal Bull of Pius XI, Munifcentissimus Deus (1950), 
promulgating the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary. The new dogma 
affirms that Mary as the Bride is united with the Son in the hea\enly bridal 
chamber, and as Sophia (Wisdom) she is united with the Godhead. Thus 
the feminine principle is brought into immediate proximity with the 
masculine Trinity. Cf. Jung, "Answer to Job," in Psychology and Religion: 
West and East ( CW 1 1 ), pp. 458 ff. A. J. 

with a little man, a peasant, in his horse-drawn wagon. All around us 
shells were exploding, and I knew that we had to push on as quickly 
as possible, for it was very dangerous. [3] 

We had to cross a bridge and then go through a tunnel whose 
vaulting had been partially destroyed by the shells. Arriving at the 
end of the tunnel, we saw before us a sunny landscape, and I 
recognized it as the region around Verona. Below me lay the city, 
radiant in full sunlight. I felt relieved, and we drove on out into the 
green, thriving Lombard plain. The road led through lovely 
springtime countryside; we saw the rice fields, the olive trees, and 
the vineyards. Then, diagonally across the road, I caught sight of a 
large building, a manor house of grand proportions, rather like the 
palace of a North Italian duke. It was a typical manor house with 
many annexes and outbuildings. Just as at the Louvre, the road led 
through a large courtyard and past the palace. The little coachman 
and myself drove in through a gate, and from here we could see, 
through a second gate at the far end, the sunlit landscape again. I 
looked around: to my right was the fagade of the manor house, to 
my left the servants' quarters and the stables, barns, and other 
outbuildings, which stretched on for a long way. 

Just as we reached the middle of the courtyard, in front of the main 
entrance, something unexpected happened: with a dull clang, both 
gates flew shut. The peasant leaped down from his seat and 



exclaimed, "Now we are caught in the seventeenth century." 
Resignedly 1 thought, "Well, that's that! But what is there to do about 
it? Now we shall be caught for years." Then the consoling thought 
came to me: "Someday, years from now, I shall get out again." 

After this dream 1 plowed through ponderous tomes on the history of 
the world, of religion, and of philosophy, without finding anything that 
could help me explain the dream. Not 

3 The shells falling from the sky were, interpreted psychologically, missiles 
coming from the "other side," They were, therefore, effects emanating from 
the unconscious, from the shadow side of the mind. The happenings in the 
dream suggested that the war, which in the outer world had taken place 
some years before, was not yet over, but was continuing to be fought within 
the psyche. Here, apparently, was to be found the solution of problems 
which could not be found in the outer world. C. G. J. 

until much later did I realize that it referred to alchemy, for that 
science reached its height in the seventeenth century. Oddly 
enough, I had entirely forgotten what Herbert Silberer had written 
about alchemy.[4] At the time his book was published, I regarded 
alchemy as something off the beaten track and rather silly, much as 
I appreciated Silberer's anagogic or constructive point of view. I 
was in correspondence with him at the time and had let him know 
how much I valued his work. As his tragic death shows, Silberer's 
discovery of the problem was not followed by insight into it.[5] He 
had used in the main late material, which I could make nothing of. 
The late alchemical texts are fantastic and baroque; only after we 
have learned how to interpret them can we recognize what 
treasures they hide. 

Light on the nature of alchemy began to come to me only after I had 
read the text of the Golden Flower, that specimen of Chinese 
alchemy which Richard Wilhelm sent me in 1928. I was stirred by 
the desire to become more closely acquainted with the alchemical 



texts. I commissioned a Munich bookseller to notify me of any 
alchemical books that might fall into his hands. Soon afterward I 
received the first of them, the Artis Auriferae Volumina Duo (1593), 
a comprehensive collection of Latin treatises among which are a 
number of the "classics" of alchemy. 

I let this book lie almost untouched for nearly two years. 
Occasionally I would look at the pictures, and each time I would 
think, "Good Lord, what nonsense! This stuff is impossible to 
understand." But it persistently intrigued me, and I made up my 
mind to go into it more thoroughly. The next winter I began, and 
soon found it provocative and exciting. To be sure, the texts still 
seemed to me blatant nonsense, but here and there would be 
passages that seemed significant to me, and occasionally I even 
found a few sentences which I thought I could understand. Finally I 
realized that the alchemists were talking in symbols those old 
acquaintances of mine. "Why, this is fantastic," I thought. "I simply 
must learn to decipher all this." By now I was 

4 Problems of Mysticism and Its Symbolism (New York, 1917; Gennan 
edn., Vienna, 1914). 

5 Silberer committed suicide, 

completely fascinated, and buried myself in the texts as often as I 
had the time. One night, while I was studying them, I suddenly 
recalled the dream that I was caught in the seventeenth century. At 
last I grasped its meaning. "So that's it! Now I am condemned to 
study alchemy from the very beginning." 

It was a long while before I found my way about in the labyrinth of 
alchemical thought processes, for no Ariadne had put a thread into 
my hand. Reading the sixteenth-century text, "Rosarium 
Philosophorum" I noticed that certain strange expressions and turns 
of phrase were frequently repeated. For example, "solve et 



coagula" "unum vas" "lapis," "prima materia" "Mercurius" etc. I saw 
that these expressions were used again and again in a particular 
sense, but I could not make out what that sense was. I therefore 
decided to start a lexicon of key phrases with cross references. In 
the course of time I assembled several thousand such key phrases 
and words, and had volumes filled with excerpts. I worked along 
philological lines, as if I were trying to solve the riddle of an unknown 
language. In this way the alchemical mode of expression gradually 
yielded up its meaning. It was a task that kept me absorbed for 
more than a decade. 

I had very soon seen that analytical psychology coincided in a most 
curious way with alchemy. The experiences of the alchemists were, 
in a sense, my experiences, and their world was my world. This 
was, of course, a momentous discovery: I had stumbled upon the 
historical counterpart of my psychology of the unconscious. The 
possibility of a comparison with alchemy, and the uninterrupted 
intellectual chain back to Gnosticism, gave substance to my 
psychology. When I pored over these old texts everything fell into 
place: the fantasy-images, the empirical material I had gathered in 
my practice, and the conclusions I had drawn from it. I now began to 
understand what these psychic contents meant when seen in 
historical perspective. My understanding of their typical character, 
which had already begun with my investigation of myths, was 
deepened. The primordial images and the nature of the archetype 
took a central place in my researches, and it became clear to me 
that without history there can be no psychology, and certainly no 
psychology of the unconscious. A psychology of consciousness 
can, to be sure, content itself with material drawn from personal life, 
but as soon as we wish to explain a neurosis we require an 
anamnesis which reaches deeper than the knowledge of 
consciousness. And when in the course of treatment unusual 
decisions are called for, dreams occur that need more than 



personal memories for their interpretation. 

I regard my work on alchemy as a sign of my inner relationship to 
Goethe. Goethe's secret was that he was in the grip of that process 
of archetypal transformation which has gone on through the 
centuries. He regarded his Faust as an opus magnum or divinum. 
He called it his "main business," and his whole life was enacted 
within the framework of this drama. Thus, what was alive and active 
within him was a living substance, a suprapersonal process, the 
great dream of the mundus archetypus (archetypal world). 

I myself am haunted by the same dream, and from my eleventh year 
I have been launched upon a single enterprise which is my "main 
business." My life has been permeated and held together by one 
idea and one goal: namely, to penetrate into the secret of the 
personality. Everything can be explained from this central point, and 
all my works relate to this one theme. 

My real scientific work began with the association experiment in 
1903. I regard it as my first scientific work in the sense of an 
undertaking in the field of natural science. Studies in Word 
Association was followed by two psychiatric papers whose origin I 
have already discussed: "The Psychology of Dementia Praecox" 
and "The Content of the Psychoses." In 1912 my book Wandlungen 
und Symbole der Libido was published, and my friendship with 
Freud came to an end. From then on, I had to make my way alone, 

I had a starting point in my intense preoccupation with the images 
of my own unconscious. This period lasted from 1913 to 1917; then 
the stream of fantasies ebbed away. Not until it had subsided and I 
was no longer held captive inside the magic mountain was I able to 
take an objective view of that whole experience and begin to reflect 
upon it. The first question I asked myself was, "What does one do 
with the unconscious?" "The Relations between the Ego and the 



Unconscious"[6] was my answer. In Paris I had delivered a lecture 
on this subject in 1916;[7] it was, however, not published in German 
until twelve years later, in greatly expanded form. In it I described 
some of the typical contents of the unconscious, and showed that it 
is by no means a matter of indifference what attitude the conscious 
mind takes toward them. 

Simultaneously, I was busy with preparatory work for Psychological 
Types, first published in 1921. This work sprang originally from my 
need to define the ways in which my outlook differed from Freud's 
and Adler's. In attempting to answer this question, I came across 
the problem of types; for it is one's psychological type which from 
the outset determines and limits a person's judgment. My book, 
therefore, was an effort to deal with the relationship of the individual 
to the world, to people and things. It discussed the various aspects 
of consciousness, the various attitudes the conscious mind might 
take toward the world, and thus constitutes a psychology of 
consciousness regarded from what might be called a clinical angle. 
I worked a great deal of literature into this book. The writings of 
Spitteler occupied a special place, in particular his Prometheus 
and Epimetheus;[8] but I also discussed Schiller, Nietzsche, and the 
intellectual history of the classical era and the Middle Ages. I was 
presumptuous enough to send a copy of my book to Spitteler. He 
did not answer me, but shortly afterward delivered a lecture in which 
he declared positively that his Prometheus and Epimetheus 
"meant" nothing, that he might just as well have sung, "Spring is 
come, tra-la-la-la-la." 

The book on types yielded the insight that every judgment made by 
an individual is conditioned by his personality type and that every 
point of view is necessarily relative. This raised 

6 In Two Essays on Analytical Psychology (CW 7) . 

7 "La Structure de I'inconscient," Archies de psychologie, >J/I (Geneva, 



1916), 62, 152-79. See CW 7, Appendix 2, "The Structure of the 

Unconscious." 

8 Carl Spitteler (1845-1924) was a Swiss writer whose best-known works, 

besides Prometheus and Epimetheus, include the epic Der Olympische 

Fruhling and the novel Imago. In 1919 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for 

literature. 

the question of the unity which must compensate this diversity, and 
it led me directly to the Chinese concept of Tao. I have already 
spoken of the interplay between my inner development and Richard 
Wilhelm's sending me a Taoist text. In 1929 he and I collaborated 
on The Secret of the Golden Flower. It was only after I had reached 
the central point in my thinking and in my researches, namely, the 
concept of the self, that I once more found my way back to the 
world. I began delivering lectures and taking a number of journeys. 
The various essays and lectures formed a kind of counterpoise to 
the years of interior searching. They also contained answers to the 
questions that were put to me by my readers and patients. [9] 

A subject with which I had been deeply concerned ever since my 
book Wandlungen und Symbole was the theory of the libido. I 
conceived the libido as a psychic analogue of physical energy, 
hence as a more or less quantitative concept, which therefore 
should not be defined in qualitative terms. My idea was to escape 
from the then prevailing concretism of the libido theory in other 
words, I wished no longer to speak of the instincts of hunger, 
aggression, and sex, but to regard all these phenomena as 
expressions of psychic energy. 

In physics, too, we speak of energy and its various manifestations, 
such as electricity, light, heat, etc. The situation in psychology is 
precisely the same. Here, too, we are dealing primarily with energy, 
that is to say, with measures of intensity, with greater or lesser 
quantities. It can appear in various guises. If we conceive of libido 
as energy, we can take a comprehensive and unified view. 



Qualitative questions as to the nature of the libido whether it be 
sexuality, power, hunger, or something else recede into the 
background. What I wished to do for psychology was to arrive at 
some logical and thorough view such as is provided in the physical 
sciences by the theory of energetics. This is what I was after in my 
paper "On Psychic Energy" (1928). I see man's drives, for example, 
as various manifestations of energic processes and thus as forces 
analogous to heat, light, etc. Just as it would not occur to the 
modern physicist to derive all forces from, shall We say, heat alone, 
so the psychologist should beware of lumping all instincts under the 
concept of sexuality. This was Freud's initial error which he later 
corrected by his assumption of "ego-instincts." Still later he brought 
in the superego, and conferred virtual supremacy upon it. 

9 These works are distributed mainly among wlumes 4, 8, 10, and 16 of the 
Collected Works. 

In "The Relations between the Ego and the Unconscious" I had 
discussed only my preoccupation with the unconscious, and 
something of the nature of that preoccupation, but had not yet said 
anything much about the unconscious itself. As I worked with my 
fantasies, I became aware that the unconscious undergoes or 
produces change. Only after I had familiarized myself with alchemy 
did I realize that the unconscious is a process, and that the psyche 
is transformed or developed by the relationship of the ego to the 
contents of the unconscious. In individual cases that transformation 
can be read from dreams and fantasies. In collective life it has left 
its deposit principally in the various religious systems and their 
changing symbols. Through the study of these collective 
transformation processes and through understanding of alchemical 
symbolism I arrived at the central concept of my psychology: the 
process of individuation. 

An essential aspect of my work is that it soon began to touch on the 



question of one's view of the world, and on the relations between 
psychology and religion. I went into these matters in detail first in 
"Psychology and Religion" (1938) and then, as a direct offshoot of 
this, in Paracelsica (1942). The second essay in this book, 
"Paracelsus as a Spiritual Phenomenon," is of particular 
importance from this point of view. The writings of Paracelsus 
contain a wealth of original ideas, including clear formulations of the 
questions posed by the alchemists, though these are set forth in 
late and baroque dress. Through Paracelsus I was finally led to 
discuss the nature of alchemy in relation to religion and psychology 
or, to put it another way, of alchemy as a form of religious 
philosophy. This I did in Psychology and Alchemy ( 1944). Thus I 
had at last reached the ground which underlay my own experiences 
of the years 1913 to 1917; for the process through which I had 
passed at that time corresponded to the process of alchemical 
transformation discussed in that book. 

It is only natural that I should constantly have revolved in my mind the 
question of the relationship of the symbolism of the unconscious to 
Christianity as well as to other religions. Not only do I leave the door 
open for the Christian message, but I consider it of central 
importance for Western man. It needs, however, to be seen in a 
new light, in accordance with the changes wrought by the 
contemporary spirit. Otherwise, it stands apart from the times, and 
has no effect on man's wholeness. I have endeavored to show this 
in my writings. I have given a psychological interpretation of the 
dogma of the Trinity and of the text of the Mass which, moreover, I 
compared with the visions described by Zosimos of Panopolis, a 
third-century alchemist and Gnostic. [10] My attempt to bring 
analytical psychology into relation with Christianity ultimately led to 
the question of Christ as a psychological figure. As early as 1944, 
in Psychology and Alchemy, I had been able to demonstrate the 
parallelism between the Christ f gure and the central concept of the 



alchemists, the lapis, or stone. 

In 1939 I gave a seminar on the Spiritual Exercises of Ignatius 
Loyola. At the same time I was occupied on the studies for 
Psychology and Alchemy. One night I awoke and saw, bathed in 
bright light at the foot of my bed, the figure of Christ on the Cross. It 
was not quite life-size, but extremely distinct; and I saw that his body 
was made of greenish gold. The vision was marvelously beautiful, 
and yet I was profoundly shaken by it. A vision as such is nothing 
unusual for me, for I frequently see extremely vivid hypnagogic 
images. 

I had been thinking a great deal about the Anima Christi, one of the 
meditations from the Spiritual Exercises. The vision came to me as 
if to point out that I had overlooked something in iny reflections: the 
analogy of Christ with the aurum nonvulgi and the viriditas of the 
alchemists.[11] When I realized that the vision pointed to this central 
alchemical symbol, and that 

10 Both studies are included in Psychology and Religion: West and East ( 
CW11 ) 

11 The more serious alchemists realized that the purpose of their work was 
not the transmutation of base metals into gold, but the production of an 
aurum non vulgi ("not the common gold") or aurum philosophicum 
("philosophical gold"). In other words, they were concerned with spiritual 
values and the problem of psychic transformation. A. J. 

I had had an essentially alchemical vision of Christ, I felt comforted. 

The green gold is the living quality which the alchemists saw not 
only in man but also in inorganic nature. It is an expression of the 
life-spirit, the anima mundi or films macrocosmi, the Anthropos who 
animates the whole cosmos. This spirit has poured himself out into 
everything, even into inorganic matter; he is present in metal and 
stone. My vision was thus a union of the Christ-image with his 



analogue in matter, the filius macrocosmi. If I had not been so struck 
by the greenish-gold, I would have been tempted to assume that 
something essential was missing from my "Christian" view in other 
words, that my traditional Christ-image was somehow inadequate 
and that I still had to catch up with part of the Christian development. 
The emphasis on the metal, however, showed me the undisguised 
alchemical conception of Christ as a union of spiritually alive and 
physically dead matter. 

I took up the problem of Christ again in Aion.[12] Here I was 
concerned not with the various historical parallels but with the 
relation of the Christ figure to psychology. Nor did I see Christ as a 
figure stripped of all externalities. Rather, I wished to show the 
development, extending over the centuries, of the religious content 
which he represented. It was also important to me to show how 
Christ could have been astrologically predicted, and how he was 
understood both in terms of the spirit of his age and in the course of 
two thousand years of Christian civilization. This was what I wanted 
to portray, together with all the curious marginal glosses which have 
accumulated around him in the course of the centuries. 

As I delved into all these matters the question of the historical 
person, of Jesus the man, also came up. It is of importance 
because the collective mentality of his time one might also say: the 
archetype which was already constellated, the primordial image of 
the Anthropos was condensed in him, an almost unknown Jewish 
prophet. The ancient idea of the Anthropos, whose roots lie in 
Jewish tradition on the one hand 

12 English trans., under same title, in 1959 (CW 9, **) 

and in the Egyptian Horus myth on the other, had taken possession 
of the people at the beginning of the Christian era, for it was part of 
the Zeitgeist. It was essentially concerned with the Son of Man, 



God's own son, who stood opposed to the deified Augustus, the 
ruler of this world. This idea fastened upon the originally Jewish 
problem of the Messiah and made it a world problem. 

It would be a serious misunderstanding to regard as "mere 
chance'* the fact that Jesus, the carpenter's son, proclaimed the 
gospel and became the savior of the world. He must have been a 
person of singular gifts to have been able so completely to express 
and to represent the general, though unconscious, expectations of 
his age. No one else could have been the bearer of such a 
message; it was possible only for this particular man Jesus. 

In those times the omnipresent, crushing power of Rome, 
embodied in the divine Caesar, had created a world where 
countless individuals, indeed whole peoples, were robbed of their 
cultural independence and of their spiritual autonomy. Today, 
individuals and cultures are faced with a similar threat, namely of 
being swallowed up in the mass. Hence in many places there is a 
wave of hope in a reappearance of Christ, and a visionary rumor 
has even arisen which expresses expectations of redemption. The 
form it has taken, however, is comparable to nothing in the past, but 
is a typical child of the "age of technology." This is the worldwide 
distribution of the UFO phenomenon (unidentified flying 
objects).[13] 

Since my aim was to demonstrate the full extent to which my 
psychology corresponded to alchemy or vice versa I wanted to 
discover, side by side with the religious questions, what special 
problems of psychotherapy were treated in the work of the 
alchemists. The main problem of medical psychotherapy is the 
transference. In this matter Freud and I were in complete 
agreement. I was able to demonstrate that alchemy, too, had 
something that corresponded to the transference- 



13 Cf. Flying Saucers: A Modem Myth of Things Seen in the Skies (New 
York and London, 1959); also in Civilization in Transition (CW 10). 

namely, the concept of the coniunctio, whose pre-eminent 
importance had been noted already by Silberer. Evidence for this 
correspondence is contained in my book, Psychology and Alchemy. 
Two years later, in 1946, 1 pursued the matter further in "Psychology 
of the Transference,"[14] and finally my researches led to the 
Mysterium Coniunetionis. 

As with all problems that concerned me personally or scientifically, 
that of the coniunctio was accompanied or heralded by dreams. In 
one of these dreams both this and the Christ problem were 
condensed in a remarkable image. 

I dreamed once more that my house had a large wing which I had 
never visited. I resolved to look at it, and finally entered. I came to a 
big double door. When I opened it, I found myself in a room set up 
as a laboratory. In front of the window stood a table covered with 
many glass vessels and all the paraphernalia of a zoological 
laboratory. This was my father's workroom. However, he was not 
there. On shelves along the walls stood hundreds of bottles 
containing every imaginable sort offish. I was astonished: so now 
my father was going in for ichthyology! 

As I stood there and looked around I noticed a curtain which bellied 
out from time to time, as though a strong wind were blowing. 
Suddenly Hans, a young man from the country, appeared. I told him 
to look and see whether a window were open in the room behind 
the curtain. He went, and was gone for some time. When he 
returned, I saw an expression of terror on his face. He said only, 
"Yes, there is something. It's haunted in there!" 

Then I myself went, and found a door which led to my mother's 



room. There was no one in it. The atmosphere was uncanny. The 
room was very large, and suspended from the ceiling were two 
rows of five chests each, hanging about two feet above the floor. 
They looked like small garden pavilions, each about sixfeet in area, 
and each containing two beds. I knew that this was the room where 
my mother, who in reality had long been dead, was visited, and that 
she had set up these 

14 In The Practice of Psychotherapy ( CW 16 ). 
15CW14. 

beds for visiting spirits to sleep. They were spirits who came in 
pairs, ghostly married couples, so to speak, who spent the night or 
even the day there. 

Opposite my mother's room was a door. I opened it and entered a 
vast hall; it reminded me of the lobby of a large hotel. It was fitted 
out with easy chairs, small tables, pillars, sumptuous hangings, etc. 
A brass band was playing loudly; I had heard music all along in the 
background, but without knowing where it came from. There was no 
one in the hall except the brass band blaring forth dance tunes and 
marches. 

The brass band in the hotel lobby suggested ostentatious jollity and 
worldliness. No one would have guessed that behind this loud 
facade was the other world, also located in the same building. The 
dream-image of the lobby was, as it were, a caricature of my 
bonhomie or worldly joviality. But this was only the outside aspect; 
behind it lay something quite different, which could not be 
investigated in the blare of the band music: the fish laboratory and 
the hanging pavilions for spirits. Both were awesome places in 
which a mysterious silence prevailed. In them I had the feeling: Here 
is the dwelling of night; whereas the lobby stood for the daylight 
world and its superficiality. 



The most important images in the dream were the "reception room 
for spirits" and the fish laboratory. The former expresses in 
somewhat farcial fashion the coniunctio; the latter indicates my 
preoccupation with Christ, who himself is the fish (ichthys). Both 
were subjects that were to keep me on the go for more than a 
decade. 

It is remarkable that the study of fish was attributed to my father. In 
the dream he was a caretaker of Christian souls, for, according to 
the ancient view, these are fish caught in Peter's net. It is equally 
remarkable that in the same dream my mother was a guardian of 
departed spirits. Thus both my parents appeared burdened with the 
problem of the "cure of souls," which in fact was really my task. 
Something had remained unfinished and was still with my parents; 
that is to say, it was still latent in the unconscious and hence 
reserved for the future. I was being reminded that I had not yet dealt 
with the major concern of "philosophical" alchemy, the coniunctio, 
and thus had not answered the question which the Christian soul put 
to me. Also the major work on the Grail legend, which my wife had 
made her life's task, was not completed. [16] I recall how often the 
quest for the Grail and the fisher king came to my mind while I was 
working on the ichthys symbol in Aion. Had it not been for my 
unwillingness to intrude upon my wife's field, I would unquestionably 
have had to include the Grail legend in my studies of alchemy. 

My memory of my father is of a sufferer stricken with an Amfortas 
wound, a "fisher king" whose wound would not heal that Christian 
suffering for which the alchemists sought the panacea. I as a 
"dumb" Parsifal was the witness of this sickness during the years of 
my boyhood, and, like Parsifal, speech failed me. I had only 
inklings. In actuality my father had never interested himself in 
theriomorphic Christ-symbolism. On the other hand he had literally 
lived right up to his death the suffering prefigured and promised by 



Christ, without ever becoming aware that this was a consequence 
of the imitatio Christi. He regarded his suffering as a personal 
affliction for which you might ask a doctor's advice; he did not see it 
as the suffering of the Christian in general. The words of Galatians 
2:20: "I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me," never penetrated his 
mind in their full significance, for any thinking about religious 
matters sent shudders of horror through him. He wanted to rest 
content with faith, but faith broke faith with him. Such is frequently 
the reward of the sacrificium intellectus. "Not all men can receive 
this precept, but only those to whom it is given.... There are eunuchs 
who have made themselves eunuchs for the sake of the kingdom of 
heaven. He who is able to receive this, let him receive it." (Matthew 
19:11f.) Blind acceptance never leads to a solution; at best it leads 
only to a standstill and is paid for heavily in the next generation. 

The theriomorphic attributes of the gods show that the gods extend 
not only into superhuman regions but also into the 

16 After the death of Mrs. Jung in 1955, Dr. Marie-Louise von Franz took up 
the work on the Grail and brought it to safe hartrar in 1958. Cf. Emma Jung 
and Marie-Louise von Franz: The Grail Legend, trans, by Andrea Dykes, 
New York and London, 1930). A. J. 

subhuman realm. The animals are their shadows, as it were, which 
nature herself associates with the divine image. The "pisciculi 
Christianorum" show that those who imitate Christ are themselves 
fish that is, unconscious souls who require the cura animarum. The 
fish laboratory is a synonym for the ecclesiastical "cure of souls" 
And just as the wounder wounds himself, so the healer heals 
himself. Significantly, in the dream the decisive activity is carried 
out by the dead upon the dead, in the world beyond consciousness, 
that is, in the unconscious. 

At that stage of my life, therefore, I was still not conscious of an 
essential aspect of my task, nor would I have been able to give a 



satisfactory interpretation of the dream. I could only sense its 
meaning. I still had to overcome the greatest inner resistances 
before I could write Answer to Job. 

The inner root of this book is to be found in Aion. There I had dealt 
with the psychology of Christianity, and Job is a kind of 
prefiguration of Christ. The link between them is the idea of 
suffering. Christ is the suffering servant of God, and so was Job. In 
the case of Christ the sins of the world are the cause of suffering, 
and the suffering of the Christian is the general answer. This leads 
inescapably to the question: Who is responsible for these sins? In 
the final analysis it is God who created the world and its sins, and 
who therefore became Christ in order to suffer the fate of humanity. 

In Aion there are references to the bright and dark side of the divine 
image. I cited the "wrath of God" the commandment to fear God, 
and the petition "Lead us not into temptation". The ambivalent God- 
image plays a crucial part in the Book of Job. Job expects that God 
will, in a sense, stand by him against God; in this we have a picture 
of God's tragic ontradictoriness. This was the main theme of 
Answer to Job, 

There were outside forces, too, which impelled me to write this 
book. The many questions from the public and from patients had 
made me feel that I must express myself more clearly about the 
religious problems of modern man. For years I had hesitated to do 
so, because I was fully aware of the storm I would be unleashing. 
But at last I could not help being gripped by the problem, in all its 
urgency and difficulty, and I found myself compelled to give an 
answer. I did so in the form in which the problem had presented 
itself to me, that is, as an experience charged with emotion. I chose 
this form deliberately, in order to avoid giving the impression that I 
was bent on proclaiming some eternal truth. My Answer to Job was 
meant to be no more than the utterance of a single individual, who 



hopes and expects to arouse some thoughtfulness in his public. I 
was far from wanting to enunciate a metaphysical truth. Yet the 
theologians tax me with that very thing, because theological thinkers 
are so used to dealing with eternal truths that they know no other 
kinds. When the physicist says that the atom is of such and such a 
composition, and when he sketches a model of it, he too does not 
intend to express anything like an eternal truth. But theologians do 
not understand the natural sciences and, particularly, psychological 
thinking. The material of analytical psychology, its principal facts, 
consist of statements of statements that occur frequently in 
consistent form at various places and at various times. 

The problem of Job in all its ramifications had likewise been 
foreshadowed in a dream. It started with my paying a visit to my 
long-deceased father. He was living in the country-l did not know 
where. I saw a house in the style of the eighteenth century, very 
roomy, with several rather large outbuildings. It had originally been, I 
learned, an inn at a spa, and it seemed that many great 
personages, famous people and princes, had stopped there. 
Furthermore, several had died and their sarcophagi were in a crypt 
belonging to the house. My father guarded these as custodian. 

He was, as I soon discovered, not only the custodian but also a 
distinguished scholar in his own right which he had never been in 
his lifetime. I met him in his study, and, oddly enough, Dr. Y-who 
was about my age and his son, both psychiatrists, were also 
present. I do not know whether I had asked a question or whether 
my father wanted to explain something of his own accord, but in any 
case he fetched a big Bible down from a shelf, a heavy folio volume 
like the Merian Bible in my library. The Bible my father held was 
bound in shiny fishskin. He opened it at the Old Testament I 
guessed that he turned to the Pentateuch and began interpreting a 
certain passage. He did this so swiftly and so learnedly that I could 
not follow him. I noted only that what he said betrayed a vast amount 



of variegated knowledge, the significance of which I dimly 
apprehended but could not properly judge or grasp. I saw that Dr. Y 
understood nothing at all, and his son began to laugh. They thought 
that my father was going off the deep end and what he said was 
simply senile prattle. But it was quite clear to me that it was not due 
to morbid excitement, and that there was nothing silly about what he 
was saying. On the contrary, his argument was so intelligent and so 
learned that we in our stupidity simply could not follow it. It dealt with 
something extremely important which fascinated him. That was why 
he was speaking with such intensity; his mind was flooded with 
profound ideas. I was annoyed and thought it was a pity that he had 
to talk in the presence of three such idiots as we. 

The two psychiatrists represented a limited medical point of view 
which, of course, also infects me as a physician. They represent my 
shadow first and second editions of the shadow, father and son. 

Then the scene changed. My father and Iwere infrontofthe house, 
facing a kind of shed where, apparently, wood was stacked. We 
heard loud thumps, as if large chunks of wood were being thrown 
down or tossed about. I had the impression that at least two 
workmen must be busy there, but my father indicated to me that the 
place was haunted. Some sort of poltergeists were making the 
racket, evidently. 

We then entered the house, and I saw that it had very thick walls. 
We climbed a narrow staircase to the second floor. There a strange 
sight presented itself: a large hall which was the exact replica of the 
divan-i-kaas (council hall) of Sultan Akbar at Fatehpur Sikri. It was a 
high, circular room with a gallery running along the wall, from which 
four bridges led to a basin- shaped center. The basin rested upon a 
huge column and formed the sultan's round seat. From this elevated 
place he spoke to his councilors and philosophers, who sat along 
the walls in the gallery. The whole was a gigantic mandala. It 



corresponded precisely to the real divan-i-kaas. 

In the dream I suddenly saw that from the center a steep flight of 
stairs ascended to a spot high up on the wall which no longer 
corresponded to reality. At the top of the stairs was a small door, 
and my father said, "Now I will lead you into the highest presence." 
Then he knelt down and touched his forehead to the floor. I imitated 
him, likewise kneeling, with great emotion. For some reason I could 
not bring my forehead quite down to the floor there was perhaps a 
millimeter to spare. But at least I had made the gesture with him. 
Suddenly I knew perhaps my father had told me that that upper door 
led to a solitary chamber where lived Uriah, King David's general, 
whom David had shamefully betrayed for the sake of his wife 
Bathsheba, by commanding his soldiers to abandon Uriah in the 
face of the enemy. 

I must make a few explanatory remarks concerning this dream. The 
initial scene describes how the unconscious task which I had left to 
my "father," that is, to the unconscious, was working out. He was 
obviously engrossed in the Bible-Genesis?-and eager to 
communicate his insights. The fishskin marks the Bible as an 
unconscious content, for fishes are mute and unconscious. My poor 
father does not succeed in communicating either, for the audience 
is in part incapable of understanding, in part maliciously stupid. 

After this defeat we cross the street to the "other side," where 
poltergeists are at work. Poltergeist phenomena usually take place 
in the vicinity of young people before puberty; that is to say, lam still 
immature and too unconscious. The Indian ambience illustrates the 
"other side." When I was in India, the mandala structure of the 
divan-i-kaas had in actual fact powerfully impressed me as the 
representation of a content related to a center. The center is the 
seat of Akbar the Great, who rules over a subcontinent, who is a 
"lord of this world," like David. But even higher than David stands 



his guiltless victim, his loyal general Uriah, whom he abandoned to 
the enemy. Uriah is a prefiguration of Christ, the god-man who was 
abandoned by God. "My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken 
me?" On top of that, David had "taken unto himself Uriah's wife. 
Only later did I understand what this allusion to Uriah signified: not 
only was I forced to speak publicly, and very much to my detriment, 
about the ambivalence of the God-image in the Old Testament; but 
also, my wife would be taken from me by death. 

These were the things that awaited me, hidden in the unconscious. I 
had to submit to this fate, and ought really to have touched my 
forehead to the floor, so that my submission would be complete. But 
something prevented me from doing so entirely, and kept me just a 
millimeter away. Something in me was saying, "All very well, but not 
entirely." Something in me was defiant and determined not to be a 
dumb fish: and if there were not something of the sort in free men, 
no Book of Job would have been written several hundred years 
before the birth of Christ. Man always has some mental reservation, 
even in the face of divine decrees. Otherwise, where would be his 
freedom? And what would be the use of that freedom if it could not 
threaten Him who threatens it? 

Uriah, then, lives in a higher place than Akbar. He is even, as the 
dream said, the "highest presence," an expression which properly 
is used only of God, unless we are dealing in Byzantinisms. I cannot 
help thinking here of the Buddha and his relationship to the gods. 
For the devout Asiatic, the Tathagata is the All-Highest, the 
Absolute. For that reason Hinayana Buddhism has been suspected 
of atheism very wrongly so. By virtue of the power of the gods man 
is enabled to gain an insight into his Creator. He has even been 
given the power to annihilate Creation in its essential aspect, that 
is, man's consciousness of the world. Today he can extinguish all 
higher life on earth by radioactivity. The idea of world annihilation is 
already suggested by the Buddha: by means of enlightenment the 



Nidana chain-the chain of causality which leads inevitably to old 
age, sickness, and death-can be broken, so that the illusion of 
Being comes to an end. Schopenhauer's negation of the Will points 
prophetically to a problem of the future that has already come 
threatingly close. The dream discloses a thought and a premonition 
that have long been present in humanity: the idea of the creature 
that surpasses its creator by a small but decisive factor. 

After this excursion into the world of dreams, I must once more 
come back to my writings. In Aion I embarked upon a cycle of 
problems that needed to be dealt with separately. I had attempted 
to explain how the appearance of Christ coincided with the 
beginning of a new aeon, the age of the Fishes. A synchronicity 
exists between the life of Christ and the objective astronomical 
event, the entrance of the spring equinox into the sign of Pisces. 
Christ is therefore the "Fish" (just as Hammurabi before him was 
the "Ram"), and comes forth as the ruler of the new aeon. This led 
to the problem of synchronicity, which I discussed in my paper 
"Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle."[17] 

The Christ problem in Aion finally led me to the question of how the 
phenomenon of the Anthropos in psychological terms, the self is 
expressed in the experience of the individual. I attempted to give an 
answer to this in Von den Wurzeln des Bewusstseins ( 1954 ).[18] 
There I was concerned with the interplay between conscious and 
unconscious, with the development of consciousness from the 
unconscious, and with the impact of the greater personality, the 
inner man, upon the life of every individual. 

This investigation was rounded out by the Mysterium Coniunctionis, 
in which I once again took up the problem of the transference, but 
primarily followed my original intention of representing the whole 
range of alchemy as a kind of psychology of alchemy, or as an 
alchemical basis for depth psychology. In Mysterium Coniunctionis 



my psychology was at last given its place in reality and established 
upon its historical foundations. Thus my task was finished, my work 
done, and now it can stand. The moment I touched bottom, I 
reached the bounds of scientific understanding, the transcendental, 
the nature of the archetype per se, concerning which no further 
scientific statements can be made. 

The survey I have given here of my work is, of course, only a brief 
summary. I really ought to say a great deal more, or a 

17 In C. G. Jung and W. Pauli, The Interpretation of Nature and the Psyche 
(New York and London, 1954); also in The Structure and Dynamics of the 
Psyche (CW 8). 

18 The essays in this book are mostly contained in w>lumes 8, 9 (i), and 11 
of the Collected Works. 

great deal less. It is an improvisation, like everything I am relating 
here. It is born of the moment. Those who know my work may 
possibly profit by it; others perhaps will be impelled to look into my 
ideas. My life is what I have done, my scientific work; the one is 
inseparable from the other. The work is the expression of my inner 
development; for commitment to the contents of the unconscious 
forms the man and produces his transformations. My works can be 
regarded as stations along my life's way. 

All my writings may be considered tasks imposed from within; their 
source was a fateful compulsion. What I wrote were things that 
assailed me from within myself. I permitted the spirit that moved me 
to speak out. I have never counted upon any strong response, any 
powerful resonance, to my writings. They represent a compensation 
for our times, and I have been impelled to say what no one wants to 
hear. For that reason, and especially at the beginning, I often felt 
utterly forlorn. I knew that what I said would be unwelcome, for it is 
difficult for people of our times to accept the counterweight to the 
conscious world. Today I can say that it is truly astonishing that I 



have had as much success as has been accorded me far more 
than I ever could have expected. I have the feeling that I have done 
all that it was possible for me to do. Without a doubt that life work 
could have been larger, and could have been done better; but more 
was not within my power. 



VIM 



The Tower 



GRADUALLY through my scientific work, I was able to put my 
fantasies and the contents of the unconscious on a solid footing. 
Words and paper, however, did not seem real enough to me; 
something more was needed. I had to achieve a kind of 
representation in stone of my innermost thoughts and of the 
knowledge I had acquired. Or, to put it another way, I had to make a 
confession of faith in stone. That was the beginning of the "Tower," 
the house which I built for myself at Bollingen. 

It was settled from the start that I would build near the water. I had 
always been curiously drawn by the scenic charm of the upper lake 
of Zurich, and so in 1922 I bought some land in Bollingen. It is 
situated in the area of St. Meinrad and is old church land, having 
formerly belonged to the monastery of St. Gall. 

At first I did not plan a proper house, but merely a kind of primitive 
one-story dwelling. It was to be a round structure with a hearth in the 
center and bunks along the walls. I more or less had in mind an 
African hut where the fire, ringed by a few stones, burns in the 
middle, and the whole life of the family revolves around this center. 
Primitive huts concretize an idea ofwholeness, a familial 
wholeness in which all sorts of small domestic animals likewise 
participate. But I altered the plan even during the first stages of 
building, for I felt it was too primitive. I realized it would have to be a 
regular two-story house, not a mere hut crouched on the ground. So 
in 1923 the first round house was built, and when it was finished I 



saw that it had become a suitable dwelling tower. 

The feeling of repose and renewal that I had in this tower was 
intense from the start. It represented for me the maternal hearth. But 
I became increasingly aware that it did not yet express everything 
that needed saying, that something was still, lacking. And so, four 
years later, in 1927, the central structure was added, with a tower- 
like annex. 

After some time had passed again the interval was four years I 
once more had a feeling of incompleteness. The building still 
seemed too primitive to me, and so in 1931 the tower-like annex 
was extended. I wanted a room in this tower where I could exist for 
myself alone. I had in mind what I had seen in Indian houses, in 
which there is usually an area though it may be only a corner of a 
room separated off by a curtain to which the inhabitants can 
withdraw. There they meditate for perhaps a quarter or half an hour, 
or do Yoga exercises. Such an area of retirement is essential in 
India, where people live crowded very close together. 

In my retiring room I am by myself. I keep the key with me all the 
time; no one else is allowed in there except with my permission. In 
the course of the years I have done paintings on the walls, and so 
have expressed all those things which have carried me out of time 
into seclusion, out of the present into timelessness. Thus the 
second tower became for me a place of spiritual concentration. 

In 1935, the desire arose in me for a piece of fenced-in land, I 
needed a larger space that would stand open to the sky and to 
nature. And so-once again after an interval of four years-l added a 
courtyard and a loggia by the lake, which formed a fourth element 
that was separated from the unitary threeness of the house. Thus a 
quaternity had arisen, four different parts of the building, and, 
moreover, in the course of twelve years. 



After my wife's death in 1955, I felt an inner obligation to become 
what I myself am. To put it in the language of the Bollingen house, I 
suddenly realized that the small central section which crouched so 
low, so hidden, was myself! I could no longer hide myself behind the 
"maternal" and the "spiritual" towers. So, in that same year, I added 
an upper story to this section, which represents myself, or my ego- 
personality. Earlier, I would not have been able to do this; I would 
have regarded it as presumptuous self-emphasis. Now it signified 
an extension of consciousness achieved in old age. With that the 
building was complete. I had started the first tower in 1923, two 
months after the death of my mother. These two dates are 
meaningful because the Tower, as we shall see, is connected with 
the dead. 

From the beginning I felt the Tower as in some way a place of 
maturation a maternal womb or a maternal figure in which I could 
become what I was, what I am and will be. It gave me a feeling as if I 
were being reborn in stone. It is thus a concretization of the 
individuation process, a memorial aere perennius. During the 
building work, of course, I never considered these matters. I built the 
house in sections, always following the concrete needs of the 
moment. It might also be said that I built, it in a kind of dream. Only 
afterward did I see how all the parts fitted together and that a 
meaningful form had resulted: a symbol of psychic wholeness. 

At Bollingen I am in the midst of my true life, I am most deeply 
myself. Here I am, as it were, the "age-old son of the mother." That 
is how alchemy puts it, very wisely, for the "old man" the "ancient," 
whom I had already experienced as a child, is personality No. 2, 
who has always been and always will be. He exists outside time 
and is the son of the maternal unconscious. In my fantasies he took 
the form of Philemon, and he comes to life again at Bollingen. 



At times I feel as if I am spread out over the landscape and inside 
things, and am myself living in every tree, in the plashing of the 
waves, in the clouds and the animals that come and go, in the 
procession of the seasons. There is nothing in the Tower that has 
not grown into its own form over the decades, nothing with which I 
am not linked. Here everything has its history, and mine; here is 
space for the spaceless kingdom of the world's and the psyche's 
hinterland. 

I have done without electricity, and tend the fireplace and stove 
myself. Evenings, I light the old lamps. There is no running water, 
and I pump the water from the well. I chop the wood and cook the 
food. These simple acts make man simple; and how difficult it is to 
be simple! 

In Bollingen, silence surrounds me almost audibly, and I live "in 
modest harmony with nature. "[1] Thoughts rise to the surface which 
reach back into the centuries, and accordingly anticipate a remote 
future. Here the torment of creation is lessened; creativity and play 
are close together. 

In 1 950 I made a kind of monument out of stone to express what the 
Tower means to me. The story of how this stone came to me is a 
curious one. I needed stones for building the enclosing wall for the 
so-called garden, and ordered them from the quarry near Bollingen. 
I was standing by when the mason gave all the measurements to 
the owner of the quarry, who wrote them down in his notebook. 
When the stones arrived by ship and were unloaded, it turned out 
that the cornerstone had altogether the wrong measurements; 
instead of a triangular stone, a square block had been sent: a 
perfect cube of much larger dimensions than had been ordered, 
about twenty inches thick. The mason was furious and told the 
barge men to take it right back with them. 



But when I saw the stone, I said, "No, that is my stone, I must have 
it!" For I had seen at once that it suited me perfectly and that I 
wanted to do something with it. Only I did not yet know what. 

The first thing that occurred to me was a Latin verse by the 
alchemist Arnaldus de Villanova (died 1313). I chiseled this into the 
stone; in translation it goes: 

1 Tide of an old Chinese woodcut showing a little old man in a heroic 
landscape. 

Here stands the mean, uncomely stone, 
"Ts very cheap in price! 
The more it is despised by fools, 
The more loved by the wise. 

This verse refers to the alchemist's stone, the lapis, which is 
despised and rejected. 

Soon something else emerged. I began to see on the front face, in 
the natural structure of the stone, a small circle, a sort of eye, which 
looked at me. I chiseled it into the stone, and in the center made a 
tiny homunculus. This corresponds to the "little doll" (pupilla) 
yourself which you see in the pupil of another's eye; a kind of Kabir, 
or the Telesphoros of Asklepios. Ancient statues show him wearing 
a hooded cloak and carrying a lantern. At the same time he is a 
pointer of the way. I dedicated a few words to him which came into 
my mind while I was working. The inscription is in Greek; the 
translation goes: 

Time is a child playing like a child playing a board game the 
kingdom of the child. This is Telesphoros, who roams through the 
dark regions of this cosmos and glows like a star out of the depths. 
He points the way to the gates of the sun and to the land of 
dreams. [2] 



These words came to me one after the other while I worked on the 
stone. 

On the third face, the one facing the lake, I let the stone itself speak, 
as it were, in a Latin inscription. These sayings are more or less 
quotations from alchemy. This is the translation: 

I am an orphan, alone; nevertheless I am found everywhere. I am 
one, but opposed to myself. I am youth and old man at one and the 
same time. I have known neither father nor mother, because I have 
had to be fetched out of the deep like a fish, or fell like a white stone 
from heaven. In woods and mountains I roam, but I am hidden in the 
innermost soul of man. I am mortal for everyone, yet I am not 
touched by the cycle of aeons. 

2 The first sentence is a fragment from Heraclitus; the second sentence 
alludes to the Mithras liturgy, and the last sentence to Homer (Odyssey, 
Book 24, verse 12), 

In conclusion, under the saying of Arnaldus de Villanova, I set down 
in Latin the words "In remembrance of his seventy-fifth birthday C. 
G. Jung made and placed this here as a thanks offering, in the year 
1950." 

When the stone was finished, I looked at it again and again, 
wondering about it and asking myself what lay behind my impulse to 
carve it. 

The stone stands outside the Tower, and is like an explanation of it. 
It is a manifestation of the occupant, but one which remains 
incomprehensible to others. Do you know what I wanted to chisel 
into the back face of the stone? "Le cri de Merlin!" For what the 
stone expressed reminded me of Merlin's life in the forest, after he 
had vanished from the world. Men still hear his cries, so the legend 



runs, but they cannot understand or interpret them. 

Merlin represents an attempt by the medieval unconscious to create 
a parallel f gure to Parsifal. Parsifal is a Christian hero, and Merlin, 
son of the devil and a pure virgin, is his dark brother. In the twelfth 
century, when the legend arose, there were as yet no premises by 
which his intrinsic meaning could be understood. Hence he ended 
in exile, and hence "le cri de Merlin" which still sounded from the 
forest after his death. This cry that no one could understand implies 
that he lives on in unredeemed form. His story is not yet finished, 
and he still walks abroad. It might be said that the secret of Merlin 
was carried on by alchemy, primarily in the figure of Mercurius. 
Then Merlin was taken up again in my psychology of the 
unconscious and remains uncomprehended to this dayl That is 
because most people find it quite beyond them to live on close 
terms with the unconscious. Again and again I have had to learn 
how hard this is for people. 

I was in Bollingen just as the first tower was being finished. This 
was the winter of 1 923-24. As far as I can recall, there was no snow 
on the ground; perhaps it was early spring. I had been alone 
perhaps for a week, perhaps longer. An indescribable stillness 
prevailed. 

One evening I can still remember it precisely I was sitting by the 
fireplace and had put a big kettle on the fire to make hot water for 
washing up. The water began to boil and the kettle to sing. It 
sounded like many voices, or stringed instruments, or even like a 
whole orchestra. It was just like polyphonic music, which in reality I 
cannot abide, though in this case it seemed to me peculiarly 
interesting. It was as though there were one orchestra inside the 
Tower and another one outside. Now one dominated, now the 
other, as though they were responding to each other, 



I sat and listened, fascinated. For far more than an hour I listened to 
the concert, to this natural melody. It was soft music, containing, as 
well, all the discords of nature. And that was right, for nature is not 
only harmonious; she is also dreadfully contradictory and chaotic. 
The music was that way too: an out-pouring of sounds, having the 
quality of water and of wind so strange that it is simply impossible 
to describe it. 

On another such still night when I was alone in Bollingen (it was in 
the late winter or early spring of 1 924) I awoke to the sound of soft 
footsteps going around the Tower. Distant music sounded, coming 
closer and closer, and then I heard voices laughing and talking. I 
thought, 'Who can be prowling around? What is this all about? 
There is only the little footpath along the lake, and scarcely anybody 
ever walks on it!" While I was thinking these things I became wide 
awake, and went to the window. I opened the shutters all was still. 
There was no one in sight, nothing to be heard no wind nothing 
nothing at all. 

"This is really strange," I thought. I was certain that the footsteps, the 
laughter and talk, had been real. But apparently I had only been 
dreaming. I returned to bed-and mulled over the way we can 
deceive ourselves after all, and what might have been the cause of 
such a strange dream. In the midst of this, I fell asleep again-and at 
once the same dream began: once more I heard footsteps, talk, 
laughter, music. At the same time I had a visual image of several 
hundred dark-clad figures, possibly peasant boys in their Sunday 
clothes, who had come down from the mountains and were pouring 
in around the Tower, on both sides, with a great deal of loud 
trampling, laughing, singing, and playing of accordions. Irritably, I 
thought, "This is really the limit! I thought it was a dream and now it 
turns out to be reality!" At this point, I woke up. Once again I jumped 
up, opened the window and shutters, and found everything just the 
same as before: a deathly still moonlit night. Then I thought: "Why, 



this is simply a case of haunting!" 

Naturally I asked myself what it meant when a dream was so 
insistent on its reality and at the same time on my being awake. 
Usually we experience that only when we see a ghost. Being awake 
means perceiving reality. The dream therefore represented a 
situation equivalent to reality, in which it created a kind of wakened 
state. In this sort of dream, as opposed to ordinary dreams, the 
unconscious seems bent on conveying a powerful impression of 
reality to the dreamer, an impression which is emphasized by 
repetition. The sources of such realities are known to be physical 
sensations on the one hand, and archetypal figures on the other. 

That night everything was so completely real, or at least seemed to 
be so, that I could scarcely sort out the two realities. Nor could I 
make anything of the dream itself. What was the meaning of these 
music-making peasant boys passing by in a long procession? It 
seemed to me they had come out of curiosity, in order to look at the 
Tower. 

Never again did I experience or dream anything similar, and I 
cannot recall ever having heard of a parallel to it. It was only much 
later that I found an explanation. This was when I came across the 
seventeenth-century Lucerne chronicle by Rennward Cysat. He tells 
the following story: On a high pasture of Mount Pilatus, which is 
particularly notorious for spooks it is said that Wotan to this day 
practices his magic arts there Cysat, while climbing the mountain, 
was disturbed one night by a procession of men who poured past 
his hut on both sides, playing music and singing precisely what I 
had experienced at the Tower. 

The next morning Cysat asked the herdsman with whom he had 
spent that night what could have been the meaning of it. The man 
had a ready explanation: those must be the departed folk— salig Lut, 



in Swiss dialect; the phrase also means blessed folk namely, 
Wotan's army of departed souls. These, he said, were in the habit 
of walking abroad and showing themselves. 

It may be suggested that this is a phenomenon of solitude, the 
outward emptiness and silence being compensated by the image 
of a crowd of people. This would put it in the same class with the 
hallucinations of hermits, which are likewise compensatory. But do 
we know what realities such stories may be founded on? It is also 
possible that I had been so sensitized by the solitude that I was able 
to perceive the procession of "departed folk" who passed by. 

The explanation of this experience as a psychic compensation 
never entirely satisfied me, and to say that it was a hallucination 
seemed to me to beg the question. I felt obliged to consider the 
possibility of its reality, especially in view of the seventeenth-century 
account which had come my way. 

It would seem most likely to have been a synchronistic 
phenomenon. Such phenomena demonstrate that premonitions or 
visions very often have some correspondence in external reality. 
There actually existed, as I discovered, a real parallel to my 
experience. In the Middle Ages just such gatherings of young men 
took place. These were the Reislaufer (mercenaries) who usually 
assembled in spring, marched from Central Switzerland to Locarno, 
met at the Casa di Ferro in Minusio and then marched on together 
to Milan. In Italy they served as soldiers, fighting for foreign princes. 
My vision, therefore, might have been one of these gatherings 
which took place regularly each spring when the young men, with 
singing and jollity, bade farewell to their native land. 

When we began to build at Bollingen in 1923, my eldest daughter 
came to see the spot, and exclaimed, "What, you're building here? 
There are corpses about!" Naturally I thought, "Ridiculous! Nothing 



of the sort!" But when we were constructing the annex four years 
later, we did come upon a skeleton. It lay at a depth of seven feet in 
the ground. An old rifle bullet was imbedded in the elbow. From 
various indications it seemed evident that the body had been 
thrown into the grave in an advanced state of decay. It belonged to 
one of the many dozens of French soldiers who were drowned in 
the Linth in 1799 and were later washed up on the shores of the 
Upper Lake. These men were drowned when the Austrians blew up 
the bridge of Grynau which the French were storming. A photograph 
of the open grave with the skeleton and the date of its discovery 
August 22, 1927 is preserved at the Tower. 

I arranged a regular burial on my property, and fired a gun three 
times over the soldier's grave. Then I set up a gravestone with an 
inscription for him. My daughter had sensed the presence of the 
dead body. Her power to sense such things is something she 
inherits from my grandmother on my mother's side. 

In the winter of 1955-56 I chiseled the names of my paternal 
ancestors on three stone tablets and placed them in the court- yard 
of the Tower. I painted the ceiling with motifs from my own and my 
wife's arms, and from those of my sons-in-law. The Jung family 
originally had a phoenix for its arms, the bird obviously being 
connected with "young," "youth," "rejuvenation." My grandfather 
changed the elements of the arms, probably out of a spirit of 
resistance toward his father. He was an ardent Freemason and 
Grand Master of the Swiss lodge. This had a good deal to do with 
the changes he made in the armorial bearings. I mention this point, 
in itself of no consequence, because it belongs in the historical 
nexus of my thinking and my life. 

In keeping with this revision of my grandfather's, my coat of arms no 
longer contains the original phoenix. Instead there is a cross azure 
in chief dexter and in base sinister a blue bunch of grapes in a field 



d'or; separating these is an estoile d'or in a fess azure. [3] The 
symbolism of these arms is Masonic, or Rosicrucian. Just as cross 
and rose represent the Rosicrucian problem of opposites ("per 
crucem ad rosam"), that is, the Christian and Dionysian elements, 
so cross and grapes are symbols of the heavenly and the chthonic 
spirit. The uniting symbol is the gold star, the aurum philosophorum. 

3 Translated from the language of heraldry: a blue cross in the upper right 
and blue grapes in the lower left in a field of gold; a blue bar with a gold star. 

The Rosicrucians derived from Hermetic or alchemical philosophy. 
One of their founders was Michael Maier ( 1568-1622), a well- 
known alchemist and younger contemporary of the relatively 
unknown but more important Gerardus Dorneus (end ofthe 
sixteenth century), whose treatises fill the first volume of the 
Theatrum Chemicum of 1602. The two men lived in Frankfurt, which 
seems to have been a center of alchemical philosophy at the time. 
In any case, as Count Palatine and court physician to Rudolph II, 
Michael Maier was something of a local celebrity. In neighboring 
Mainz at that time lived Dr. med. et. jur. Carl Jung (died 1654), of 
whom nothing else is known, since the family tree breaks off with 
my great-great-grandfather who lived at the beginning of the 
eighteenth century. This was Sigmund Jung, a civis Moguntinus, 
citizen of Mainz. The hiatus is due to the fact that the municipal 
archives of Mainz were burned in the course of a siege during the 
War of the Spanish Succession. It is a safe surmise that this 
evidently learned Dr. Carl Jung was familiar with the writings of the 
two alchemists, for the pharmacology of the day was still very much 
under the influence of Paracelsus. Dorneus was an outspoken 
Paracelsist and even composed a voluminous commentary on the 
Paracelsan treatise, De Vita Longa. He also, more than all the 
other alchemists, dealt with the process of individuation. In view of 
the fact that a large part of my life work has revolved around the 
study of the problem of opposites, and especially their alchemical 



symbolism, all this is not without a certain interest. 

When I was working on the stone tablets, I became aware of the 
fateful links between me and my ancestors. I feel very strongly that I 
am under the influence of things or questions which were left 
incomplete and unanswered by my parents and grandparents and 
more distant ancestors. It often seems as if there were an 
impersonal karma within a family, which is passed on from parents 
to children. It has always seemed to me that I had to answer 
questions which fate had posed to my forefathers, and which had 
not yet been answered, or as if I had to complete, or perhaps 
continue, things which previous ages had left unfinished. It is difficult 
to determine whether these questions are more of a personal or 
more of a general (collective) nature. It seems to me that the latter is 
the case. A collective problem, if not recognized as such, always 
appears as a personal problem, and in individual cases may give 
the impression that something is out of order in the realm of the 
personal psyche. The personal sphere is indeed disturbed, but 
such disturbances need not be primary; they may well be 
secondary, the consequence of an insupportable change in the 
social atmosphere. The cause of disturbance is, therefore, not to be 
sought in the personal surroundings, but rather in the collective 
situation. Psychotherapy has hitherto taken this matter far too little 
into account. 

Like anyone who is capable of some introspection, I had early 
taken it for granted that the split in my personality was my own 
purely personal affair and responsibility. Faust, to be sure, had 
made the problem somewhat easier for me by confessing, "Two 
souls, alas, are housed within my breast"; but he had thrown no light 
on the cause of this dichotomy. His insight seemed, in a sense, 
directed straight at me. In the days when I first read Faust I could not 
remotely guess the extent to which Goethe's strange heroic myth 
was a collective experience and that it prophetically anticipated the 



fate of the Germans. Therefore I felt personally implicated, and 
when Faust, in his hubris and self-inflation, caused the murder of 
Philemon and Baucis, I felt guilty, quite as if I myself in the past had 
helped commit the murder of the two old people. This strange idea 
alarmed me, and I regarded it as my responsibility to atone for this 
crime, or to prevent its repetition. 

My false conclusion was further supported by a bit of odd 
information that I picked up during those early years, I heard that it 
had been bruited about that my grandfather Jung had been an 
illegitimate son of Goethe's. [4] This annoying story made an 
impression upon me insofar as it at once corroborated and 
seemed to explain my curious reactions to Faust. It is true that I did 
not believe in reincarnation, but I was instinctively familiar with that 
concept which the Indians call karma. Since in those days I had no 
idea of the existence of the unconscious, I could not have had any 
psychological understanding of my reactions. I also did not know no 
more than, even today, it is generally known that the future is 
unconsciously prepared long in advance and therefore can be 
guessed by clairvoyants. Thus, when the news arrived of the 
crowning of Kaiser Wilhelm I at Versailles, Jakob Burckhardt 
exclaimed, "That is the doom of Germany." The archetypes of 
Wagner were already knocking at the gates, and along with them 
came the Dionysian experience of Nietzsche which might better be 
ascribed to the god of ecstasy, Wotan. The hubris of the Wilhelmine 
era alienated Europe and paved the way for the disaster of 1914. 

4 See above, Chap. II, n. i, pp. 35-36. 

In my youth (around 1890) I was unconsciously caught up by this 
spirit of the age, and had no methods at hand for extricating myself 
from it. Faust struck a chord in me and pierced me through in a way 
that I could not but regard as personal. Most of all, it awakened in 
me the problem of opposites, of good and evil, of mind and matter, 



of light and darkness, Faust, the inept, purblind philosopher, 
encounters the dark side of his being, his sinister shadow, 
Mephistopheles, who in spite of his negating disposition represents 
the true spirit of life as against the arid scholar who hovers on the 
brink of suicide. My own inner contradictions appeared here in 
dramatized form; Goethe had written virtually a basic outline and 
pattern of my own conflicts and solutions. The dichotomy of Faust- 
Mephistopheles came together within myself into a single person, 
and I was that person. In other words, I was directly struck, and 
recognized that this was my fate. Hence, all the crises of the drama 
affected me personally; at one point I had passionately to agree, at 
another to oppose. No solution could be a matter of indifference to 
me. Later I consciously linked my work to what Faust had passed 
over: respect for the eternal rights of man, recognition of "the 
ancient," and the continuity of culture and intellectual history.[5] 

Our souls as well as our bodies are composed of individual 
elements which were all already present in the ranks of our an- 
cestors. The "newness" in the individual psyche is an endlessly 
varied recombination of age-old components. Body and soul 
therefore have an intensely historical character and find no 

5 Jung's attitude is shown in the inscription he placed o\sr the gate of the 
Tower: Philemonis Sacrum Fausti Poenftentia (Shrine of Philemon 
Repentance of Faust) . When the gate was walled up, he put the same 
words abo\e the entrance to the second tower. A. J. 

proper place in what is new, in things that have just come into 
being. That is to say, our ancestral components are only partly at 
home in such things. We are very far from having finished 
completely with the Middle Ages, classical antiquity, and primitivity, 
as our modern psyches pretend. Nevertheless, we have plunged 
down a cataract of progress which sweeps us on into the future with 
ever wilder violence the farther it takes us from our roots. Once the 



past has been breached, it is usually annihilated, and there is no 
stopping the forward motion. But it is precisely the loss of 
connection with the past, our uprootedness, which has given rise to 
the "discontents" of civilization and to such a flurry and haste that 
we live more in the future and its chimerical promises of a golden 
age than in the present, with which our whole evolutionary 
background has not yet caught up. We rush impetuously into 
novelty, driven by a mounting sense of insufficiency dissatisfaction, 
and restlessness. We no longer live on what we have, but on 
promises, no longer in the light of the present day, but in the 
darkness of the future, which, we expect, will at last bring the proper 
sunrise. We refuse to recognize that everything better is purchased 
at the price of something worse; that, for example, the hope of 
greater freedom is canceled out by increased enslavement to the 
state, not to speak of the terrible perils to which the most brilliant 
discoveries of science expose us. The less we understand of what 
our fathers and forefathers sought, the less we understand 
ourselves, and thus we help with all our might to rob the individual of 
his roots and his guiding instincts, so that he becomes a particle in 
the mass, ruled only by what Nietzsche called the spirit of gravity. 

Reforms by advances, that is, by new methods or gadgets, are of 
course impressive at first, but in the long run they are dubious and 
in any case dearly paid for. They by no means increase the 
contentment or happiness of people on the whole. Mostly, they are 
deceptive sweetenings of existence, like speedier communications 
which unpleasantly accelerate the tempo of life and leave us with 
less time than ever before. Omnis festinatio ex parte diaboli est all 
haste is of the devil, as the old masters used to say. 

Reforms by retrogressions, on the other hand, are as a rule less 
expensive and in addition more lasting, for they return to the 
simpler, tried and tested ways of the past and make the sparsest 
use of newspapers, radio, television, and all supposedly timesaving 



innovations. 

In this book I have devoted considerable space to my subjective 
view of the world, which, however, is, not a product of rational 
thinking. It is rather a vision such as will come to one who 
undertakes, deliberately, with half-closed eyes and somewhat 
closed ears, to see and hear the form and voice of being. If our 
impressions are too distinct, we are held to the hour and minute of 
the present and have no way of knowing how our ancestral psyches 
listen to and understand the present in other words, how our 
unconscious is responding to it. Thus we remain ignorant of 
whether our ancestral components find an elementary gratification 
in our lives, or whether they are repelled. Inner peace and 
contentment depend in large measure upon whether or not the 
historical family which is inherent in the individual can be 
harmonized with the ephemeral conditions of the present. 

In the Tower at Bollingen it is as if one lived in many centuries 
simultaneously. The place will outlive me, and in its location and 
style it points backward to things of long ago. There is very little 
about it to suggest the present. If a man of the sixteenth century 
were to move into the house, only the kerosene lamp and the 
matches would be new to him; otherwise, he would know his way 
about without difficulty. There is nothing to disturb the dead, neither 
electric light nor telephone. Moreover, my ancestors' souls are 
sustained by the atmosphere of the house, since I answer for them 
the questions that their lives once left behind. I carve out rough 
answers as best I can. I have even drawn them on the walls. It is as 
if a silent, greater family, stretching down the centuries, were 
peopling the house. There I live in my second personality and see 
life in the round, as something forever coming into being and 
passing on. 



IX 



Travels 



i. NORTH AFRICA 

AT THE BEGINNING of 1920 a friend told me that he had a 
business trip to make to Tunis, and would I like to accompany him? 
I said yes immediately. We set out in March, going first to Algiers. 
Following the coast, we reached Tunis and from there Sousse, 
where I left my friend to his business affairs. 

At last I was where I had longed to be: in a non-European country 
where no European language was spoken and no Christian 
conceptions prevailed, where a different race lived and a different 
historical tradition and philosophy had set its stamp upon the face 
of the crowd. I had often wished to be able for once to see the 
European from outside, his image reflected back at him by an 
altogether foreign milieu. To be sure, there was my ignorance of the 
Arabic language, which I deeply regretted; but to make up for this I 
was all the more attentive in observing the people and their 
behavior. Frequently I sat for hours in an Arab coffee house, 
listening to conversations of which I understood not a word. But I 
studied the people's gestures, and especially their expression of 
emotions; I observed the subtle change in their gestures when they 
spoke with a European, and thus learned to see to some extent with 
different eyes and to know the white man outside his own 
environment. 

What the Europeans regard as Oriental calm and apathy seemed 



to me a mask; behind it I sensed a restlessness, a degree of 
agitation, which I could not explain. Strangely, in setting foot upon 
Moorish soil, I found myself haunted by an impression which I myself 
could not understand: I kept thinking that the land smelled queer. It 
was the smell of blood, as though the soil were soaked with blood. 
This strip of land, it occurred to me, had already borne the brunt of 
three civilizations: Carthaginian, Roman, and Christian. What the 
technological age will do with Islam remains to be seen. 

When I left Sousse, I traveled south to Sfax, and thence into the 
Sahara, to the oasis city of Tozeur. The city lies on a slight 
elevation, on the margin of a plateau, at whose foot lukewarm, 
slightly saline springs well up profusely and irrigate the oasis 
through a thousand little canals. Towering date palms formed a 
green, shady roof overhead, under which peach, apricot, and fig 
trees flourished, and beneath these alfalfa of an unbelievable green. 
Several kingfishers, shining like jewels, flitted through the foliage. In 
the comparative coolness of this green shade strolled figures clad 
in white, among them a great number of affectionate couples 
holding one another in close embrace obviously homosexual 
friendships. I felt suddenly transported to the times of classical 
Greece, where this inclination formed the cement of a society of 
men and of the polls based on that society. It was clear that men 
spoke to men and women to women here. Only a few of the latter 
were to be seen, nunlike, heavily veiled figures. I saw a few without 
veils. These, my dragoman explained, were prostitutes. On the 
main streets the scene was dominated by men and children. 

My dragoman confirmed my impression of the prevalence of 
homosexuality, and of its being taken for granted, and promptly 
made me offers. The good fellow could have no notion of the 
thoughts which had struck me like a flash of lightning, suddenly 
illuminating my point of observation. I felt cast back many centuries 
to an infinitely more naive world of adolescents who were 



preparing, with the aid of a slender knowledge of the Koran, to 
emerge from their original state of twilight consciousness, in which 
they had existed from time immemorial, and to become aware of 
their own existence, in self-defense against the forces threatening 
them from the North. 

While I was still caught up in this dream of a static, age-old 
existence, I suddenly thought of my pocket watch, the symbol of the 
European's accelerated tempo. This, no doubt, was the dark cloud 
that hung threateningly over the heads of these unsuspecting souls. 
They suddenly seemed to me like game who do not see the hunter 
but, vaguely uneasy, scent him~"him" being the god of time who will 
inevitably chop into the bits and pieces of days, hours, minutes, and 
seconds that duration which is still the closest thing to eternity. 

From Tozeur I went on to the oasis of Nefta. I rode off with my 
dragoman early in the morning, shortly after sunrise. Our mounts 
were large, swift-footed mules, on which we made rapid progress. 
As we approached the oasis, a single rider, wholly swathed in 
white, came toward us. With proud bearing he rode by without 
offering us any greeting, mounted on a black mule whose harness 
was banded and studded with silver. He made an impressive, 
elegant figure. Here was a man who certainly possessed no pocket 
watch, let alone a wrist watch; for he was obviously and unself- 
consciously the person he had always been. He lacked that faint 
note of foolishness which clings to the European. The European is, 
to be sure, convinced that he is no longer what he was ages ago; 
but he does not know what he has since become. His watch tells 
him that since the "Middle Ages" time and its synonym, progress, 
have crept up on him and irrevocably taken something from him. 
With lightened baggage he continues his journey, with steadily 
increasing velocity, toward nebulous goals. He compensates for the 
loss of gravity and the corresponding sentiment "incompletitude by 



the illusion of his triumphs, such as steamships, railroads, 
airplanes, and rockets, that rob him of his duration and transport 
him into another reality of speeds and explosive accelerations. 

The deeper we penetrated into the Sahara, the more time slowed 
down for me; it even threatened to move backward. The 
shimmering heat waves rising up contributed a good deal to my 
dreamy state, and when we reached the first palms and dwellings of 
the oasis, it seemed to me that everything here was exactly the way 
it should be and the way it had always been. 

Early the next morning I was awakened by the various unfamiliar 
noises outside my inn. There was a large open square which had 
been empty the night before, but which was now crowded with 
people, camels, mules, and donkeys. The camels groaned and 
announced in manifold variations of tone their chronic discontent, 
and the donkeys competed with cacophonous screams. The 
people ran around in a great state of excitement, shouting and 
gesticulating. They looked savage and rather alarming. My 
dragoman explained that a great festival was being celebrated that 
day. Several desert tribes had come in during the night to do two 
days of field work for the marabout. The marabout was the 
administrator of poor relief and owned many fields in the oasis. The 
people were to lay out a new field and irrigation canals to match. 

At the farther end of the square there suddenly rose a cloud of dust; 
a green flag unfolded, and drums rolled. At the head of a long 
procession of hundreds of wild-looking men carrying baskets and 
short, wide hoes appeared a white-bearded, venerable old man. 
He radiated inimitable natural dignity, as though he were a hundred 
years old. This was the marabout, astride a white mule. The men 
danced around him, beating small drums. The scene was one of 
wild excitement, hoarse shouting, dust, and heat. With fanatic 
purposefulness the procession swarmed by, out into the oasis, as if 



going to battle. 

I followed this horde at a cautious distance, and my dragoman 
made no attempt to encourage me to approach closer until we 
reached the spot where the "work" was going on. Here, if possible, 
even greater excitement prevailed; people were beating drums and 
shouting wildly; the site of the work resembled a disturbed anthill; 
everything was being done with the utmost haste. Carrying their 
baskets filled with heavy loads of earth, men danced along to the 
rhythm of the drums; others hacked into the ground at a furious rate, 
digging ditches and erecting dams. Through this wild tumult the 
marabout rode along on his white mule, evidently issuing 
instructions with the dignified, mild, and weary gestures of 
advanced age. Wherever he came, the haste, shouting, and rhythm 
intensified, forming the background against which the calm figure of 
the holy man stood out with extraordinary effectiveness. Toward 
evening the crowd was visibly overcome by exhaustion; the men 
soon dropped down beside their camels into deep sleep. During 
the night, after the usual stupendous concert of the dogs, utter 
stillness prevailed, until at the first rays of the rising sun the 
invocation of the muezzin which always deeply stirred me 
summoned the people to their morning prayer. 

This scene taught me something: these people live from their 
affects, are moved and have their being in emotions. Their 
consciousness takes care of their 'orientation in space and 
transmits impressions from outside, and it is also stirred by inner 
impulses and affects. But it is not given to reflection; the ego has 
almost no autonomy. The situation is not so different with the 
European; but we are, after all, somewhat more complicated. At 
any rate the European possesses a certain measure of will and 
directed intention. What we lack is intensity of life. 

Without wishing to fall under the spell of the primitive, I nevertheless 



had been psychically infected. This manifested itself outwardly in an 
infectious enteritis which cleared up after a few days, thanks to the 
local treatment of rice water and calomel. 

Overcharged with ideas, I finally went back to Tunis. The night 
before we embarked from Marseilles I had a dream which, I 
sensed, summed up the whole experience. This was just as it 
should be, for I had accustomed myself to living always on two 
planes simultaneously, one conscious, which attempted to 
understand and could not, and one unconscious, which wanted to 
express something and could not formulate it any better than by a 
dream. 

I dreamt that I was in an Arab city, and as in most such cities there 
was a citadel, a casbah. The city was situated in a broad plain, and 
had a wall all around it. The shape of the wall was square, and there 
were four gates. 

The casbah in the interior of the city was surrounded by a wide 
moat (which is not the way it really is in Arab countries). I stood 
before a wooden bridge leading over the water to a dark, 
horseshoe-shaped portal, which was open. Eager to see the citadel 
from the inside also, I stepped out on the bridge. When I was about 
halfway across it, a handsome, dark Arab of aristocratic, almost 
royal bearing came toward me from the gate. I knew that this youth 
in the white burnoose was the resident prince of the citadel. When 
he came up to me, he attacked me and tried to knock me down. 
We wrestled. In the struggle we crashed against the railing; it gave 
way and both of us fell into the moat, where he tried to push my 
head under water to drown me. No, I thought, this is going too far. 
And in my turn I pushed his head under water. I did so although I felt 
great admiration for him; but I did not want to let myself be killed. I 
had no intention of killing him; I wanted only to make him 
unconscious and incapable of fighting. 



Then the scene of the dream changed, and he was with me in a 
large vaulted octagonal room in the center of the citadel. The room 
was all white, very plain and beautiful. Along the light-colored 
marble walls stood low divans, and before me on the floor lay an 
open book with black letters written in magnificent calligraphy on 
milky-white parchment. It was not Arabic script; rather, it looked to 
me like the Uigurian script of West Turkestan, which was familiar to 
me from the Manichaean fragments from Turfan. I did not know the 
contents, but nevertheless I had the feeling that this was "my book," 
that I had written it. The young prince with whom I had just been 
wrestling sat to the right of me on the floor. I explained to him that 
now that I had overcome him he must read the book. But he 
resisted. I placed my arm around his shoulders and forced him, with 
a sort of paternal kindness and patience, to read the book. I knew 
that this was absolutely essential, and at last he yielded. 

In this dream, the Arab youth was the double of the proud Arab who 
had ridden past us without a greeting. As an inhabitant of the 
casbah he was a figuration of the self, or rather, a messenger or 
emissary of the self. For the casbah from which he came was a 
perfect mandala: a citadel surrounded by a square wall with four 
gates. His attempt to kill me was an echo of the motif of Jacob's 
struggle with the angel; he was to use the language of the Bible like 
an angel of the Lord, a messenger of God who wished to kill men 
because he did not know them. 

Actually, the angel ought to have had his dwelling in me. But he 
knew only angelic truth and understood nothing about man. 
Therefore he first came forward as my enemy; however, I held my 
own against him. In the second part of the dream I was the master 
of the citadel; he sat at my feet and had to learn to understand my 
thoughts, or rather, learn to know man. 



Obviously, my encounter with Arab culture had struck me with 
overwhelming force. The emotional nature of these unreflective 
people who are so much closer to life than we are exerts a strong 
suggestive influence upon those historical layers in ourselves which 
we have just overcome and left behind, or which we think we have 
overcome. It is like the paradise of childhood from which we 
imagine we have emerged, but which at the slightest provocation 
imposes fresh defeats upon us. Indeed, our cult of progress is in 
danger of imposing on us even more childish dreams of the future, 
the harder it presses us to escape from the past. 

On the other hand, a characteristic of childhood is that, thanks to its 
naivete and unconsciousness, it sketches a more complete picture 
of the self, of the whole man in his pure individuality, than adulthood. 
Consequently, the sight of a child or a primitive will arouse certain 
longings in adult, civilized persons longings which relate to the 
unfulfilled desires and needs of those parts of the personality which 
have been blotted out of the total picture in favor of the adapted 
persona. 

In traveling to Africa to f nd a psychic observation post outside the 
sphere of the European, I unconsciously wanted to find that part of 
my personality which had become invisible under the influence and 
the pressure of being European. This part stands in unconscious 
opposition to myself, and indeed I attempt to suppress it. In keeping 
with its nature, it wishes to make me unconscious (force me under 
water) so as to kill me; but my aim is, through insight, to make it 
more conscious, so that we can find a common modus vivendi. The 
Arab's dusky complexion marks him as a "shadow," but not the 
personal shadow, rather an ethnic one associated not with my 
persona but with the totality of my personality, that is, with the self. 
As master of the casbah, he must be regarded as a kind of shadow 
of the self. The predominantly rationalistic European finds much that 
is human alien to him, and he prides himself on this without realizing 



that his rationality is won at the expense of his vitality, and that the 
primitive part of his personality is consequently condemned to a 
more or less underground existence. 

The dream reveals how my encounter with North Africa affected me. 
First of all there was the danger that my European consciousness 
would be overwhelmed by an unexpectedly violent assault of the 
unconscious psyche. Consciously, I was not a bit aware of any such 
situation; on the contrary, I could not help feeling superior because I 
was reminded at every step of my Europeanism. That was 
unavoidable; my being European gave me a certain perspective on 
these people who were so differently constituted from myself, and 
utterly marked me off from them. But I was not prepared for the 
existence of unconscious forces within myself which would take the 
part of these strangers with such intensity, so that a violent conflict 
ensued. The dream expressed this conflict in the symbol of an 
attempted murder. 

I was not to recognize the real nature of this disturbance until some 
years later, when I stayed in tropical Africa. It had been, in fact, the 
first hint of "going black under the skin," a spiritual peril which 
threatens the uprooted European in Africa to an extent not fully 
appreciated. "Where danger is, there is salvation also" these words 
of Holderlin often came to my mind in such situations. The salvation 
lies in our ability to bring the unconscious urges to consciousness 
with the aid of warning dreams. These dreams show that there is 
something in us which does not merely submit passively to the 
influence of the unconscious, but on the contrary rushes eagerly to 
meet it, identifying itself with the shadow. Just as a childhood 
memory can suddenly take possession of consciousness with so 
lively an emotion that we feel wholly transported back to the original 
situation, so these seemingly alien and wholly different Arab 
surroundings awaken an archetypal memory of an only too well 



known prehistoric past which apparently we have entirely forgotten. 
We are remembering a potentiality of life which has been 
overgrown by civilization, but which in certain places is still existent. 
If we were to relive it naively, it would constitute a relapse into 
barbarism. Therefore we prefer to forget it. But should it appear to 
us again in the form of a conflict, then we should keep it in our 
consciousness and test the two possibilities against each other the 
life we live and the one we have forgotten. For what has apparently 
been lost does not come to the fore again without sufficient reason. 
In the living psychic structure, nothing takes place in a merely 
mechanical fashion; everything fits into the economy of the whole, 
relates to the whole. That is to say, it is all purposeful and has 
meaning. But because consciousness never has a view of the 
whole, it usually cannot understand this meaning. We must therefore 
content ourselves for the time being with noting the phenomenon 
and hoping that the future, or further investigation, will reveal the 
significance of this clash with the shadow of the self. In any case, I 
did not at the time have any glimmering of the nature of this 
archetypal experience, and knew still less about the historical 
parallels. Yet though I did not then grasp the full meaning of the 
dream, it lingered in my memory, along with the liveliest wish to go 
to Africa again at the next opportunity. That wish was not to be 
fulfilled for another five years. 

/'/'. AMERICA: THE PUEBLO INDIANS 

(Extract from an unpublished MS.) 

We always require an outside point to stand on, in order to apply 
the lever of criticism. This is especially so in psychology, where by 
the nature of the material we are much more subjectively involved 
than in any other science. How, for example, can we become 
conscious of national peculiarities if we have never had the 
opportunity to regard our own nation from outside? Regarding it 



from outside means regarding it from the standpoint of another 
nation. To do so, we must acquire sufficient knowledge of the 
foreign collective psyche, and in the course of this process of 
assimilation we encounter all those incompatibilities which 
constitute the national bias and the national peculiarity. Everything 
that irritates us about others can lead us to an understanding of 
ourselves. I understand England only when I see where I, as a 
Swiss, do not fit in. I understand Europe, our greatest problem, only 
when I see where I as a European do not fit into the world. Through 
my acquaintance with many Americans, and my trips to and in 
America, I have obtained an enormous amount of insight into the 
European character; it has always seemed to me that there can be 
nothing more useful for a European than some time or another to 
look out at Europe from the top of a skyscraper. When I 
contemplated for the first time the European spectacle from the 
Sahara, surrounded by a civilization which has more or less the 
same relationship to ours as Roman antiquity has to modern times, 
I became aware of how completely, even in America, I was still 
caught up and imprisoned in the cultural consciousness of the white 
man. The desire then grew in me to carry the historical 
comparisons still farther by descending to a still lower cultural level. 

On my next trip to the United States I went with a group of American 
friends to visit the Indians of New Mexico, the city- building Pueblos. 
"City," however, is too strong a word. What they build are in reality 
only villages; but their crowded houses piled one atop the other 
suggest the word "city," as do their language and their whole 
manner. There for the first time I had the good fortune to talk with a 
non-European, that is, to a non-white. He was a chief of the Taos 
pueblos, an intelligent man between the ages of forty and fifty. His 
name was Ochwiay Biano (Mountain Lake). I was able to talk with 
him as I have rarely been able to talk with a European. To be sure, 
he was caught up in his world just as much as a European is in his, 



but what a world it was! In talk with a European, one is constantly 
running up on the sand bars of things long known but never 
understood; with this Indian, the vessel floated freely on deep, alien 
seas. At the same time, one never knows which is more enjoyable: 
catching sight of new shores, or discovering new approaches to 
age-old knowledge that has been almost forgotten. 

"See," Ochwiay Biano said, "how cruel the whites look. Their lips 
are thin, their noses sharp, their faces furrowed and distorted by 
folds. Their eyes have a staring expression; they are always 
seeking something. What are they seeking? The whites always 
want something; they are always uneasy and restless. We do not 
know what they want. We do not understand them. We think that 
they are mad." 

I asked him why he thought the whites were all mad. 

"They say that they think with their heads," he replied. 

"Why of course. What do you think with?" I asked him in surprise. 

"We think here," he said, indicating his heart. 

I fell into a long meditation. For the first time in my life, so it seemed 
to me, someone had drawn for me a picture of the real white man. It 
was as though until now I had seen nothing but sentimental, 
prettified color prints. This Indian had struck our vulnerable spot, 
unveiled a truth to which we are blind. I felt rising within me like a 
shapeless mist something unknown and yet deeply familiar. And out 
of this mist, image upon image detached itself: first Roman legions 
smashing into the cities of Gaul, and the keenly incised features of 
Julius Caesar, Scipio Africanus, and Pompey. I saw the Roman 
eagle on the North Sea and on the banks of the White Nile. Then I 
saw St. Augustine transmitting the Christian creed to the Britons on 



the tips of Roman lances, and Charlemagne's most glorious forced 
conversions of the heathen; then the pillaging and murdering bands 
of the Crusading armies. With a secret stab I realized the 
hollowness of that old romanticism about the Crusades. Then 
followed Columbus, Cortes, and the other conquistadors who with 
fire, sword, torture, and Christianity came down upon even these 
remote pueblos dreaming peacefully in the Sun, their Father. I saw, 
too, the peoples of the Pacific islands decimated by firewater, 
syphilis, and scarlet fever carried in the clothes the missionaries 
forced on them. 

It was enough. What we from our point of view call colonization, 
missions to the heathen, spread of civilization, etc., has another 
face the face of a bird of prey seeking with cruel intentness for 
distant quarry a face worthy of a race of pirates and highwaymen. 
All the eagles and other predatory creatures that adorn our coats of 
arms seem to me apt psychological representatives of our true 
nature. 

Something else that Ochwiay Biano said to me stuck in my mind. It 
seems to me so intimately connected with the peculiar atmosphere 
of our interview that my account would be incomplete if I failed to 
mention it. Our conversation took place on the roof of the fifth story 
of the main building. At frequent intervals figures of other Indians 
could be seen on the roofs, wrapped in their woolen blankets, sunk 
in contemplation of the wandering sun that daily rose into a clear 
sky. Around us were grouped the low-built square buildings of air- 
dried brick (adobe), with the characteristic ladders that reach from 
the ground to the roof, or from roof to roof of the higher stories. (In 
earlier, dangerous times the entrance used to be through the roof.) 
Before us the rolling plateau of Taos (about seven thousand feet 
above sea level) stretched to the horizon, where several conical 
peaks (ancient volcanoes) rose to over twelve thousand feet. 
Behind us a clear stream purled past the houses, and on its 



opposite bank stood a second pueblo of reddish adobe houses, 
built one atop the other toward the center of the settlement, thus 
strangely anticipating the perspective of an American metropolis 
with its skyscrapers in the center. Perhaps half an hour's journey 
upriver rose a mighty isolated mountain, the mountain, which has no 
name. The story goes that on days when the mountain is wrapped 
in clouds the men vanish in that direction to perform mysterious 
rites. 

The Pueblo Indians are unusually closemouthed, and in matters of 
their religion absolutely inaccessible. They make it a policy to keep 
their religious practices a secret, and this secret is so strictly 
guarded that I abandoned as hopeless any attempt at direct 
questioning. Never before had I run into such an atmosphere of 
secrecy; the religions of civilized nations today are all accessible; 
their sacraments have long ago ceased to be mysteries. Here, 
however, the air was filled with a secret known to all the 
communicants, but to which whites could gain no access. This 
strange situation gave me an inkling of Eleusis, whose secret was 
known to one nation and yet never betrayed. I understood what 
Pausanias or Herodotus felt when he wrote: 

"I am not permitted to name the name of that god." This was not, I 
felt, mystification, but a vital mystery whose betrayal might bring 
about the downfall of the community as well as of the individual. 
Preservation of the secret gives the Pueblo Indian pride and the 
power to resist the dominant whites. It gives him cohesion and unity; 
and I feel sure that the Pueblos as an individual community will 
continue to exist as long as their mysteries are not desecrated. 

It was astonishing to me to see how the Indian's emotions change 
when he speaks of his religious ideas. In ordinary life he shows a 
degree of self-control and dignity that borders on fatalistic 
equanimity. But when he speaks of things that pertain to his 



mysteries, he is in the grip of a surprising emotion which he cannot 
conceal a fact which greatly helped to satisfy my curiosity. As I have 
said, direct questioning led to nothing. When, therefore, I wanted to 
know about essential matters, I made tentative remarks and 
observed my interlocutor's expression for those affective 
movements which are so very familiar to me. If I had hit on 
something essential, he remained silent or gave an evasive reply, 
but with all the signs of profound emotion; frequently tears would fill 
his eyes. Their religious conceptions are not theories to them 
(which, indeed, would have to be very curious theories to evoke 
tears from a man), but facts, as important and moving as the 
corresponding external realities. 

As I sat with Ochwiay Biano on the roof, the blazing sun rising 
higher and higher, he said, pointing to the sun, "Is not he who 
moves there our father? How can anyone say differently? How can 
there be another god? Nothing can be without the sun." His 
excitement, which was already perceptible, mounted still higher; he 
struggled for words, and exclaimed at last, "What would a man do 
alone in the mountains? He cannot even build his fire without him." 

I asked him whether he did not think the sun might be a fiery ball 
shaped by an invisible god. My question did not even arouse 
astonishment, let alone anger. Obviously it touched nothing within 
him; he did not even think my question stupid. It merely left him cold, 
I had the feeling that I had come upon an insurmountable wall. His 
only reply was, "The sun is God. Everyone can see that." 

Although no one can help feeling the tremendous impress of the 
sun, it was a novel and deeply affecting experience for me to see 
these mature, dignified men in the grip of an overmastering 
emotion when they spoke of it. 

Another time I stood by the river and looked up at the mountains, 



which rise almost another six thousand feet above the plateau. I 
was just thinking that this was the roof of the American continent, 
and that people lived here in the face of the sun like the Indians who 
stood wrapped in blankets on the highest roofs of the pueblo, mute 
and absorbed in the sight of the sun. Suddenly a deep voice, 
vibrant with suppressed emotion, spoke from behind me into my left 
ear: "Do you not think that all life comes from the mountain?" An 
elderly Indian had come up to me, inaudible in his moccasins, and 
had asked me this heaven knows how far-reaching question. A 
glance at the river pouring down from the mountain showed me the 
outward image that had engendered this conclusion. Obviously all 
life came from the mountain, for where there is water, there is life. 
Nothing could be more obvious. In his question I felt a swelling 
emotion connected with the word "mountain," and thought of the tale 
of secret rites celebrated on the mountain. I replied, "Everyone can 
see that you speak the truth". 

Unfortunately, the conversation was soon interrupted, and so I did 
not succeed in attaining any deeper insight into the symbolism of 
water and mountain. 

I observed that the Pueblo Indians, reluctant as they were to speak 
about anything concerning their religion, talked with great readiness 
and intensity about their relations with the Americans. "Why," 
Mountain Lake said, "do the Americans not let us alone? Why do 
they want to forbid our dances? Why do they make difficulties when 
we want to take our young people from school in order to lead them 
to the kiva (site of the rituals) , and instruct them in our religion? We 
do nothing to harm the Americans!" After a prolonged silence he 
continued, "The Americans want to stamp out our religion. Why can 
they not let us alone? What we do, we do not only for ourselves but 
for the Americans also. Yes, we do it for the whole world. Everyone 
benefits by it." 



I could observe from his excitement that he was alluding to some 
extremely important element of his religion. I therefore asked him: 
"You think, then, that what you do in your religion benefits the whole 
world?" He replied with great animation, "Of course. If we did not do 
it, what would become of the world?" And with a significant gesture 
he pointed to the sun. 

I felt that we were approaching extremely delicate ground here, 
verging on the mysteries of the tribe. "After all," he said, "we are a 
people who live on the roof of the world; we are the sons of Father 
Sun, and with our religion we daily help our father to go across the 
sky. We do this not only for ourselves, but for the whole world. If we 
were to cease practicing our religion, in ten years the sun would no 
longer rise. Then it would be night forever". 

I then realized on what the "dignity," the tranquil composure of the 
individual Indian, was founded. It springs from his being a son of the 
sun; his life is cosmologically meaningful, for he helps the father and 
preserver of all life in his daily rise and descent. If we set against 
this our own self-justifications, the meaning of our own lives as it is 
formulated by our reason, we cannot help but see our poverty. Out 
of sheer envy we are obliged to smile at the Indians' naivete and to 
plume ourselves on our cleverness; for otherwise we would 
discover how impoverished and down at the heels we are. 
Knowledge does not enrich us; it removes us more and more from 
the mythic world in which we were once at home by right of birth. 

If for a moment we put away all European rationalism and transport 
ourselves into the clear mountain air of that solitary plateau, which 
drops off on one side into the broad continental prairies and on the 
other into the Pacific Ocean; if we also set aside our intimate 
knowledge of the world and exchange it for a horizon that seems 
immeasurable, and an ignorance of what lies beyond it, we will 
begin to achieve an inner comprehension of the Pueblo Indian's 



point of view. "All life comes from the mountain" is immediately 
convincing to him, and he is equally certain that he lives upon the 
roof of an immeasurable world, closest to God. He above all others 
has the Divinity's ear, and his ritual act will reach the distant sun 
soonest of all. The holiness of mountains, the revelation of Yahweh 
upon Sinai, the inspiration that Nietzsche was vouchsafed in the 
Engadine -all speak the same language. The idea, absurd to us, 
that a ritual act can magically affect the sun is, upon closer 
examination, no less irrational but far more familiar to us than might 
at first be assumed. Our Christian religion like every other, 
incidentally is permeated by the idea that special acts or a special 
kind of action can influence God for example, through certain rites 
or by prayer, or by a morality pleasing to the Divinity. 

The ritual acts of man are an answer and reaction to the action of 
God upon man; and perhaps they are not only that, but are also 
intended to be "activating," a form of magic coercion. That man 
feels capable of formulating valid replies to the overpowering 
influence of God, and that he can render back something which is 
essential even to God, induces pride, for it raises the human 
individual to the dignity of a metaphysical factor. "God and us" even 
if it is only an unconscious sous-entendu-this equation no doubt 
underlies that enviable serenity of the Pueblo Indian. Such a man is 
in the fullest sense of the word in his proper place. 

//'/'. KENYA AND UGANDA 

Tout est bien sortant des mains de 
I'Auteur des choses-Rousseau. 

When I visited the Wembley Exhibition in London (1925), I was 
deeply impressed by the excellent survey of the tribes under British 
rule, and resolved to take a trip to tropical Africa in the near future. 



In the autumn of that year I set out with two friends, an Englishman 
and an American, for Mombassa. We traveled on a Woerman 
steamer, together with many young Englishmen going out to posts 
in various African colonies. It was evident from the atmosphere 
aboard ship that these passengers were not traveling for pleasure, 
but were entering upon their destiny. 

To be sure, there was a good deal of gay exuberance, but the 
serious undertone was also evident. As a matter of fact, I heard of 
the fate of several of my fellow voyagers even before my own return 
trip. Several met death in the tropics in the course of the next two 
months. They died of tropical malaria, amoebic dysentery, and 
pneumonia. Among those who died was the young man who sat 
opposite me at table. Another was Dr. Akley who had made a 
name for himself as the founder of the Gorilla Reservation in Central 
Africa and whom I had met in New York shortly before this voyage. 

Mombassa remains in my memory as a humidly hot, European, 
Indian, and Negro settlement hidden in a forest of palms and 
mango trees. It has an extremely picturesque setting, on a natural 
harbor, with an old Portuguese fort towering over it. We stayed 
there two days, and left toward evening on a narrow-gauge railroad 
for Nairobi in the interior, plunging almost immediately into the 
tropical night. 

Along the coastal strip we passed by numerous Negro villages 
where the people sat talking around tiny fires. Soon the train began 
to climb. The settlements ceased, and the night became inky black. 
Gradually it turned cooler, and I fell asleep. When the first ray of 
sunlight announced the onset of day, I awoke. The train, swathed in 
a red cloud of dust, was just making a turn around a steep red cliff. 
On a jagged rock above us a slim, brownish-black figure stood 
motionless, leaning on a long spear, looking down at the train. 
Beside him towered a gigantic candelabrum cactus. 



I was enchanted by this sight it was a picture of something utterly 
alien and outside my experience, but on the other hand a most 
intense sentiment du deja vu. I had the feeling that I had already 
experienced this moment and had always known this world which 
was separated from me only by distance in time. It was as if I were 
this moment returning to the land of my youth, and as if I knew that 
dark-skinned man who had been waiting for me for five thousand 
years. 

The feeling-tone of this curious experience accompanied me 
throughout my whole journey through savage Africa. I can recall only 
one other such recognition of the immemorially known. 

That was when I first observed a parapsychological phenomenon, 
together with my former chief, Professor Eugen Bleuler. Beforehand 
I had imagined that I would be dumfounded if I were to see so 
fantastic a thing. But when it happened, I was not surprised at all; I 
felt it was perfectly natural, something I could take for granted 
because I had long since been acquainted with it. 

I could not guess 'what string within myself was plucked at the sight 
of that solitary dark hunter. I knew only that his world had been mine 
for countless millennia. 

Somewhat bemused, I arrived around noon in Nairobi, situated at 
an altitude of six thousand feet. There was a dazzling plethora of 
light that reminded me of the glare of sunlight in the Engadine as 
oue comes up out of the winter fogs of the lowlands. To my 
astonishment the swarm of "boys" assembled at the railroad station 
wore the old-fashioned gray and white woolen ski caps which I had 
seen worn or worn myself in the Engadine. They are highly 
esteemed because the upturned rim can be let down like a visor in 
the Alps, good protection against the icy wind; here, against the 



blazing heat. 

From Nairobi we used a small Ford to visit the Athi Plains, a great 
game preserve. From a low hill in this broad savanna a magnificent 
prospect opened out to us. To the very brink of the horizon we saw 
gigantic herds of animals: gazelle, antelope, gnu, zebra, warthog, 
and so on. Grazing, heads nodding, the herds moved forward like 
slow rivers. There was scarcely any sound save the melancholy cry 
of a bird of prey. This was the stillness of the eternal beginning, the 
world as it had always been, in the state of non-being; for until then 
no one had been present to know that it was this world. I walked 
away from my companions until I had put them out of sight, and 
savored the feeling of being entirely alone. There I was now, the first 
human being to recognize that this was the world, but who did not 
know that in this moment he had first really created it. 

There the cosmic meaning of consciousness became 
overwhelmingly clear to me. "What nature leaves imperfect, the art 
perfects," say the alchemists. Man, I, in an invisible act of creation 
put the stamp of perfection on the world by giving it objective 
existence. This act we usually ascribe to the Creator alone, without 
considering that in so doing we view life as a machine calculated 
down to the last detail, which, along with the human psyche, runs on 
senselessly, obeying foreknown and predetermined rules. In such a 
cheerless clockwork fantasy there is no drama of man, world, and 
God; there is no "new day" leading to "new shores" but only the 
dreariness of calculated processes. My old Pueblo friend came to 
my mind. He thought that the raison d'etre of his pueblo had been to 
help their father, the sun, to cross the sky each day. I had envied 
him for the fullness of meaning in that belief, and had been looking 
about without hope for a myth of our own. Now I knew what it was, 
and knew even more: that man is indispensable for the completion 
of creation; that, in fact, he himself is the second creator of the 
world, who alone has given to the world its objective existence 



without which, unheard, unseen, silently eating, giving birth, dying, 
heads nodding through hundreds of millions of years, it would have 
gone on in the profoundest night of non-being down to its unknown 
end. Human consciousness created objective existence and 
meaning, and man found his indispensable place in the great 
process of being. 

By the Uganda railroad, which was then being built, we traveled to 
its provisional terminus, Station Sigistifour (sixty-four). The boys 
unloaded our quantities of equipment. I sat down on a chop box, a 
crate containing provisions, each one a man's head- load, and lit a 
pipe, meditating on the fact that here we had, as it were, reached 
the edge of the oikumene, the inhabited earth, from which trails 
stretched endlessly over the continent. After a while an elderly 
Englishman, obviously a squatter, joined me, sat down, and 
likewise took out a pipe. He asked where we were going. When I 
outlined our various destinations, he asked, "Is this the first time you 
have been in Africa? I have been here for forty years." 

"Yes," I told him. "At least in this part of Africa". 

"Then may I give you a piece of advice? You know, mister, this here 
country is not man's country, it's God's country. So if anything should 
happen, just sit down and don't worry." Whereupon he rose and 
without another word was lost in the horde of Negroes swarming 
around us. 

His words struck me as somehow significant, and I tried to visualize 
the psychological state from which they had sprung. Evidently they 
represented the quintessence of his experience; not man but God 
was in command here in other words, notwill and intention, but 
inscrutable design. 

I had not come to the end of my meditation when our two 



automobiles were ready to set off. Our party piled in with the 
baggage, eight men strong, and we held on as best we could. The 
shaking I received for the next several hours left no room for 
reflection. It was much farther than I had thought to the next 
settlement; Kakamegas, seat of a D.C. (District Commissioner), 
headquarters of a small garrison of the African Rifles, and site of a 
hospital and fantastically enough a small insane asylum. Evening 
approached, and suddenly night had fallen. All at once, a tropical 
storm came up, with almost incessant flashes of lightning, thunder, 
and a cloudburst which instantly soaked us from head to foot and 
made every brook a raging torrent. 

It was half an hour after midnight, with the sky beginning to clear, 
when we reached Kakamegas. We were exhausted, and the D.C. 
helpfully received us with whisky in his drawing room. A jolly and oh- 
so-welcome fire was burning in the fireplace. In the center of the 
handsome room stood a large table with a display of English 
journals. The place might easily have been a country house in 
Sussex. In my tiredness I no longer knew whether I had been 
transported from reality into a dream, or from a dream to reality. 
Then we had still to pitch our tents for the first time. Luckily, nothing 
was missing. 

Next morning I awoke with a touch of feverish laryngitis, and had to 
stay in bed for a day. To this circumstance I owe my memorable 
acquaintanceship with the "brain-fever bird," a creature remarkable 
for being able to sing a correct scale, but leaving out the last note 
and starting again from the beginning. To listen to this when one is 
down with a fever is to have one's nerves strained to the breaking 
point. 

Another feathered inhabitant of the banana plantations has a cry 
which consists of two of the sweetest and most melodious flute 
tones with a third, frightful sour note for an ending. "What nature 



leaves imperfect..." The song of the "bell bird" however, was one of 
unalloyed beauty. When it sang, it was as though a bell were drifting 
along the horizon. 

Next day, with the aid of the D.C., we rounded up our column of 
bearers, which was supplemented by a military escort of three 
Askaris. And now began the trek to Mt. Elgon, whose fourteen- 
thousand-foot crater wall we soon saw on the horizon. The track led 
through relatively dry savanna covered with umbrella acacias. The 
whole district was densely covered with small, round tumuli between 
six and ten feet high old termite colonies. 

For travelers there were resthouses along the track round, grass- 
roofed, rammed-earth huts, open and empty. At night a burning 
lantern was placed in the entrance as protection against intruders. 
Our cook had no lantern; but as a compensation he had a miniature 
hut all to himself, with which he was highly pleased. But it nearly 
proved fatal to him. The previous day he had slaughtered in front of 
his hut a sheep that we had bought for five Uganda shillings, and 
had prepared excellent mutton chops for our evening meal. After 
dinner, while we were sitting around the fire, smoking, we heard 
strange noises in the distance. The sounds came closer. They 
sounded now like the growling of bears, now like the barking and 
yapping of dogs; then again the sounds became shrill, like shrieks 
and hysterical laughter. My first impression was: This is like a comic 
turn atBarnum and Bailey's. Before long, however, the scene 
became more menacing: we were surrounded on all sides by a 
huge pack of hungry hyenas who had obviously smelled the sheep's 
blood. They performed an infernal concert, and in the glow of the 
fire their eyes could be seen glittering from the tall elephant grass. 

In spite of our lofty knowledge of the nature of hyenas, which are 
alleged not to attack man, we did not feel altogether sure of 
ourselves and suddenly a frightful human scream came from behind 



the resthouse. We snatched up our arms (a nine-mm. Mannlicher 
rifle and a shotgun) and fired several rounds in the direction of 
those glittering lights. As we did so, our cook came rushing panic- 
stricken into our midst and babbled that a fizi had come into his hut 
and almost killed him. The whole camp was in an uproar. The 
excitement, it seemed, so frightened the pack of hyenas that they 
quit the scene, protesting noisily. The bearers went on laughing for 
a long time, after which the rest of the night passed quietly, without 
further disturbance. Early next morning the local chief appeared with 
a gift of two chickens and a basketful of eggs. He implored us to 
stay another day to shoot the hyenas. The day before, he said, they 
had dragged out an old man asleep in his hut and eaten him. De 
Africa nihil certum! 

At daybreak roars of laughter began again in the boys' quarters. It 
appeared that they were re-enacting the events of the night. One of 
them played the sleeping cook, and one of the soldiers played the 
creeping hyena, approaching the sleeper with murderous intent. 
This playlet was repeated I don't know how many times, to the utter 
delight of the audience. 

From then on the cook bore the nickname "Fizi." We three whites 
already had our "trade-marks." My friend, the Englishman, was 
called "Red Neck" to the native mind, all Englishmen had red 
necks. The American, who sported an impressive wardrobe, was 
known as "bwana maredadi (the dapper gentleman). Because I 
already had gray hair at the time (I was then fifty), I was the "mzee" 
the old man, and was regarded as a hundred years old. Advanced 
age was rare in those parts; I saw very few white-haired men. Mzee 
is also a title of honor and was accorded to me in my capacity as 
head of the "Bugishu Psychological Expedition" an appellation 
imposed by the Foreign Office in London as a lucus a non lucendo. 
We did visit the Bugishus, but spent a much longer time with the 
Elgonyis. 



All in all, Negroes proved to be excellent judges of character. One 
of their avenues to insight lay in their talent for mimicry. They could 
imitate with astounding accuracy the manner of expression, the 
gestures, the gaits of people, thus, to all intents and purposes, 
slipping into their skins. I found their understanding of the emotional 
nature of others altogether surprising. I would always take the time 
to engage in the long palavers for which, they had a pronounced 
fondness. In this way I learned a great deal. 

Our traveling semiofficially proved advantageous, since in this way 
we found it easier to recruit bearers, and we were also given a 
military escort. The latter was by no means superfluous, since we 
were going to travel in territories that were not under white control. 
A corporal and two privates accompanied our safari to Mt Elgon. 

We could not help the chief by hunting the hyenas, and continued on 
our way after the adventure. The terrain sloped gently upward. 
Signs of Tertiary lava beds increased. We passed through glorious 
stretches of jungle with huge Nandi flame trees flaunting their red 
blossoms. Enormous beetles and even larger brilliantly colored 
butterflies enlivened the clearings and the edges of the jungle. 
Branches were shaken by inquisitive monkeys as we advanced 
further into the bush. It was a paradisal world. Most of the way we 
still traversed flat savanna with deep red soil. We tramped mostly 
along the native trails which meandered in strikingly sharp turns. 
Our route led us into the Nandi region, and through the Nandi 
Forest, a sizable area of jungle. Without incident we reached a 
resthouse at the foot of Mt. Elgon, which had been towering higher 
and higher above our heads for days. Here the climb began, along 
a narrow path. We were greeted by the local chief, who was the son 
of the laibon, the medicine man. He rode a pony the only horse we 
had so far seen. From him we learned that his tribe belonged to the 
Masai, but lived in isolation here on the slopes of Mt. Elgon. 



There a letter awaited us from the governor of Uganda, requesting 
us to take under our protection an English lady who was on her way 
back to Egypt via the Sudan. The governor was aware that we were 
following the same itinerary, and since we had already met the lady 
in Nairobi we knew that she would be a congenial companion. 
Moreover, we were under considerable obligation to the governor 
for his having helped us in all sorts of ways. 

I mention this episode to suggest the subtle modes by which an 
archetype influences our actions. We were three men; that was a 
matter of pure chance. I had asked another friend of mine to join us, 
which would have made a fourth. But circumstances had prevented 
him from accepting. That sufficed to produce an unconscious or 
fated constellation: the archetype of the triad, which calls for the 
fourth to complete it, as we have seen again and again in the 
history of this archetype. 

Since I am inclined to accept chance when it comes my way, I 
welcomed the lady to our group of three men. Hardy and intrepid, 
she proved a useful counterpoise to our one-sided masculinity. 
When one of our party came down with a bad case of tropical 
malaria, we were grateful for the experience she had acquired as a 
nurse during the First World War. 

After a few hours of climbing we reached a lovely large clearing, 
bisected by a clear, cool brook with a waterfall about ten feet in 
height. The pool at the bottom of the waterfall became our bath. Our 
campsite was situated about three hundred yards away, on a 
gentle, dry slope, shadowed by umbrella acacias. Nearby-that is, 
about fifteen minutes' walk away was a native kraal which consisted 
of a few huts and a boma-a yard surrounded by a hedge of wait-a- 
bit thorn. This kraal provided us with our water bearers, a woman 
and her two half-grown daughters, who were naked except for a belt 



of cowries. They were chocolate-brown and strikingly pretty, with 
fine slim figures and an aristocratic leisureliness about their 
movements. It was a pleasure for me each morning to hear the soft 
ding-clang of their iron ankle rings as they came up from the brook, 
and soon afterward to see their swaying gait as they emerged from 
the tall yellow elephant grass, balancing the amphorae of water on 
their heads. They were adorned with ankle rings, brass bracelets 
and necklaces, earrings of copper or wood in the shape of small 
spools. Their lower lips were pierced with either a bone or iron nail. 
They had very good manners, and always greeted us with shy, 
charming smiles. 

With a single exception, which I shall mention shortly, I never spoke 
to a native woman, this being what was expected of me. As in 
Southern Europe, men speak to men, women to women. Anything 
else signifies love-making. The white who goes in for this not only 
forfeits his authority, but runs the serious risk of "going black." I 
observed several highly instructive examples of this. Quite often I 
heard the natives pass judgment upon a certain white: "He is a bad 
man." When I asked why, the reply was invariably, "He sleeps with 
our women." 

Among my Elgonyis, the men busied themselves with the cattle and 
with hunting; the women were identified with the shamba, a field of 
bananas, sweet potatoes, kaffir (grain sorghum), and maize. They 
kept children, goats, and chickens in the same round hut in which 
the family lived. Their dignity and naturalness flow from their function 
in the economy; they are intensely active business partners. The 
concept of equal rights for women is the product of an age in which 
such partnership has lost its meaning. Primitive society is regulated 
by an unconscious egoism and altruism; both attitudes are wisely 
given their due. This unconscious order breaks up at once if any 
disturbance ensues which has to be remedied by a conscious act. 



It gives me pleasure to recall one of my important informants on 
family relations among the Elgonyi. He was a strikingly handsome 
youth by the name of Gibroat the son of a chief, charming and 
distinguished in manners, whose confidence I had evidently won. To 
be sure, he gladly accepted my cigarettes, but he was not greedy 
for them, as the others were for all sorts of gifts. From time to time 
he would pay me a gentlemanly visit and tell me all sorts of 
interesting things. I felt that he had something in mind, some 
request that he somehow could not voice. Not until we had known 
each other for some time did he astonish me by asking me to meet 
his family, I knew that he himself was still unmarried, and that his 
parents were dead. The family in question was that of an elder 
sister; she was married as a second wife, and had four children. 
Gibroat very much wanted me to pay her a visit, so that she would 
have the opportunity to meet me. Evidently she filled the place of a 
mother in his life. I agreed, because I hoped in this social way to 
obtain some insight into native family life. 

"Madame etait chez elle" she came out of the hut when we arrived, 
and greeted me with utter naturalness. She was a good-looking 
woman, middle-aged that is, about thirty. Aside from the obligatory 
cowrie belt, she wore arm and ankle rings, some copper ornaments 
hanging from the greatly extended ear lobe, and the skin of some 
small game animal over her breast. She had locked her four little 
"mtotos" in the hut; they peered out through cracks in the door, 
giggling excitedly. At my request she let them out; but it took some 
time before they dared to emerge. She had the same excellent 
manners as her brother, who was beaming joyfully at the success of 
his coup. 

We did not sit down, since there was nowhere to sit except on the 
dusty ground, which was covered with chicken droppings and goat 
pellets. The conversation moved in the conventional framework of 
semi-familial drawing-room talk, revolving around family, children, 



house, and garden. Her elder co-wife, whose property bordered on 
hers, had six children. The boma of this "sister" was some eighty 
yards away. Approximately halfway between the two women's huts, 
at the apex of a triangle, stood the husband's hut, and behind that, 
about fifty yards away, a small hut occupied by the first wife's 
already grown son. Each of the two women had her own shamba. 
My hostess was obviously proud of hers. 

I had the feeling that the confidence and self-assurance of her 
manner were founded to a great extent upon her identity with her 
own wholeness, her private world made up of children, house, small 
livestock, shamba and last but not least her not-unattractive 
physique. The husband was referred to only in an allusive way. It 
seemed that he was sometimes here, sometimes not here. At the 
moment he was staying at some unknown place. My hostess was 
plainly and unproblematically the embodiment of stability, a 
veritable pied-a-terre for the husband. The question did not seem to 
be whether or not he was there, but rather whether she was present 
in her wholeness, providing a geomagnetic center for the husband 
who wandered over the land with his herds. What goes on in the 
interior of these "simple" souls is not conscious, is therefore 
unknown, and we can only deduce it from comparative evidence of 
"advanced" European differentiation. 

I asked myself whether the growing masculinization of the white 
woman is not connected with the loss of her natural wholeness 
(shamba, children, livestock, house of her own, hearth fire); whether 
it is not a compensation for her impoverishment; and whether the 
feminizing of the white man is not a further consequence. The more 
rational the polity, the more blurred is the difference between the 
sexes. The role homosexuality plays in modern society is 
enormous. It is partly the consequence of the mother-complex, 
partly a purposive phenomenon (prevention of reproduction). 



My companions and I had the good fortune to taste the world of 
Africa, with its incredible beauty and its equally incredible suffering, 
before the end came. Our camp life proved to be one of the 
loveliest interludes in my life. I enjoyed the "divine peace" of a still 
primeval country. Never had I seen so clearly "man and the other 
animals" (Herodotus). Thousands of miles lay between me and 
Europe, mother of all demons. The demons could not reach me 
here there were no telegrams, no telephone calls, no letters, no 
visitors. My liberated psychic forces poured blissfully back to the 
primeval expanses. 

It was easy for us to arrange a palaver each morning with the 
natives who squatted all day long around our camp and watched 
our doings with never-fading interest. My headman, Ibrahim, had 
initiated me into the etiquette of the palaver. All the men (the women 
never came near) had to sit on the ground. Ibrahim had obtained for 
me a small four-legged chiefs stool of mahogany on which I had to 
sit. Then I began with an address and set forth the shauri, that is, the 
agenda of the palaver. Most of the natives spoke a tolerable pidgin 
Swahili; and I for my part would manage to speak to them by 
making ample use of a small dictionary. This little book was the 
object of unwearying admiration. My limited vocabulary imposed 
upon me a needful simplicity. Often the conversation resembled an 
amusing game of guessing riddles, for which reason the palavers 
enjoyed great popularity. The sessions seldom lasted longer than 
an hour or an hour and a half, because the men grew visibly tired, 
and would complain, with dramatic gestures, "Alas, we are so 
tired." 

I was naturally much interested in the natives' dreams, but at first 
could not get them to tell me any. I offered small rewards, 
cigarettes, matches, safety pins, and such things, which they were 
eager to have. But nothing helped. I could never completely explain 
their shyness about telling dreams. I suspect the reason was fear 



and distrust. It is well known that Negroes are afraid of being 
photographed; they fear that anyone who takes a picture of them is 
robbing them of their soul, and perhaps they likewise fear that harm 
may come to them from anyone who has knowledge of their 
dreams. This, incidentally, did not apply to our boys, who were 
coastal Somalis and Swahilis. They had an Arab dream book which 
they daily consulted during the trek. If they were in doubt about an 
interpretation, they would actually come to me for advice. They 
termed me a "man of the Book" because of my knowledge of the 
Koran. To their minds, I was a disguised Mohammedan. 

One time we had a palaver with the laibon, the old medicine man. 
He appeared in a splendid cloak made of the skins of blue 
monkeys a valuable article of display. When I asked him about his 
dreams, he answered with tears in his eyes, "In old days the laibons 
had dreams, and knew whether there is war or sickness or whether 
rain comes and where the herds should be driven." His grandfather, 
too, had still dreamed. But since the whites were in Africa, he said, 
no one had dreams any more. Dreams were no longer needed 
because now the English knew everything! 

His reply showed me that the medicine man had lost his raison 
d'etre. The divine voice which counseled the tribe was no longer 
needed because "the English know better." Formerly the medicine 
man had negotiated with the gods or the power of destiny, and had 
advised his people. He exerted great influence, just as in ancient 
Greece the word of the Pythia possessed the highest authority. 
Now the medicine man's authority was replaced by that of the D.C. 
The value of life now lay wholly in this world, and it seemed to me 
only a question of time and of the vitality of the black race before the 
Negroes would become conscious of the importance of physical 
power. 

Far from being an imposing personality, our laibon was only a 



somewhat tearful old gentleman. He was the living embodiment of 
the spreading disintegration of an undermined, outmoded, 
unrestorable world. 

On numerous occasions I brought the conversation around to the 
numina, especially to rites and ceremonies. Concerning these, I 
had only a single piece of evidence. In front of an empty hut, in the 
middle of a busy village street, I had seen a carefully swept spot 
several yards in diameter. In the center lay a cowrie belt, arm and 
ankle rings, earrings, the shards of all sorts of pots, and a digging 
stick. All that we were able to learn about this was the fact that a 
woman had died in this hut. Nothing whatsoever was said about a 
funeral. 

In the palaver the people assured me with considerable emphasis 
that their neighbors to the west were "bad" people. If someone died 
there, the next village was informed, and in the evening the body 
was brought to the midpoint between the two villages. From the 
other side, presents of various sorts were brought to the same spot, 
and in the morning the corpse was no longer there. It was plainly 
insinuated that the other village devoured the dead. Such things 
never happened among the Elgonyi, they said. To be sure, their 
dead were laid out in the bush, where the hyenas took care of them 
in the course of the night. In point of fact we never found any signs of 
burial of the dead. 

I was informed, however, that when a man dies, his body is placed 
on the floor in the middle of the hut. The laibon walks around the 
body, sprinkling milk from a bowl on to the floor, murmuring, "Ayik 
adhista, adhista ayikr! 

I knew the meaning of these words from a memorable palaver that 
had taken place earlier. At the end of that palaver an old man had 
suddenly exclaimed, "In the morning, when the sun comes, we go 



out of the huts, spit into our hands, and hold them up to the sun." I 
had him show me the ceremony and describe it exactly. They held 
their hands in front of their mouths, spat or blew vigorously, then 
turned the palms upward toward the sun. I asked what this meant, 
why they blew or spat into their hands. My questioning was in vain. 
"We've always done it," they said. It was impossible to obtain any 
explanation, and I realized that they actually knew only that they did 
it, not what they were doing. They themselves saw no meaning in 
this action. But we, too, perform ceremonies without realizing what 
we are doing such as lighting Christmas tree candles, hiding Easter 
eggs, etc. 

The old man said that this was the true religion of all peoples, that 
all Kevirondos, all Buganda, all tribes for as far as the eye could 
see from the mountain and endlessly farther, worshiped adhista that 
is, the sun at the moment of rising. Only then was the sun mungu, 
God. The first delicate golden crescent of the new moon in the 
purple of the western sky was also God. But only at that time; 
otherwise not. 

Evidently, the meaning of the Elgonyi ceremony was that an offering 
was being made to the sun divinity at the moment of its rising. If the 
gift was spittle, it was the substance which in the view of primitives 
contains the personal mana, the power of healing, magic, and life. If 
it was breath, then it was roho-Arabic, ruch, Hebrew, ruach, Greek, 
pneuma wind and spirit. The act was therefore saying: I offer to God 
my living soul. It was a wordless, acted-out prayer which might 
equally well be rendered: "Lord, into thy hands I commend my 
spirit." 

Besides adhista the Elgonyi we were further informed also venerate 
ayik, the spirit who dwells in the earth and is a sheitan (devil). He is 
the creator of fear, a cold wind who lies in wait for the nocturnal 
traveler. The old man whistled a kind of Loki motif to convey vividly 



how the ayik creeps through the tall, mysterious grass of the bush. 

In general the people asseverated that the Creator had made 
everything good and beautiful. He was beyond good and evil. He 
was m'zuri, that is, beautiful, and everything he did was m'zuri. 

When I asked: "But what about the wicked animals who kill your 
cattle?" they said, "The lion is good and beautiful." "And your 
horrible diseases?" They said, "You lie in the sun and it is good." 

I was impressed by this optimism. But at six o'clock in the evening 
this optimism was suddenly over, as I soon discovered. From 
sunset on, it was a different world the dark world of ayik, of evil, 
danger, fear. The optimistic philosophy gave way to fear of ghosts 
and magical practices intended to secure protection from evil. 
Without any inner contradiction the optimism returned at dawn. 

It was a profoundly stirring experience for me to find, at the sources 
of the Nile, this reminder of the ancient Egyptian conception of the 
two acolytes of Osiris, Horus and Set. Here, evidently, was a 
primordial African experience that had flowed down to the coasts of 
the Mediterranean along with the sacred waters of the Nile: adhista, 
the rising sun, the principle of light like Horus; ayik, the principle of 
darkness, the breeder of fear. In the simple rites performed for the 
dead, the laibons words and his sprinkling of milk unite the 
opposites; he simultaneously sacrifices to these two principles, 
which are of equal power and significance since the time of their 
dominance, the rule of day and of night, each visibly lasts for twelve 
hours. The important thing, however, is the moment when, with the 
typical suddenness of the tropics, the first ray of light shoots forth 
like an arrow and night passes into life-filled light. 

The sunrise in these latitudes was a phenomenon that overwhelmed 
me anew every day. The drama of it lay less in the splendor of the 



sun's shooting up over the horizon than in what happened afterward. 
I formed the habit of taking my camp stool and sitting under an 
umbrella acacia just before dawn. Before me, at the bottom of the 
little valley, lay a dark, almost black-green strip of jungle, with the 
rim of the plateau on the opposite side of the valley towering above 
it. At first, the contrasts between light and darkness would be 
extremely sharp. Then objects would assume contour and emerge 
into the light which seemed to fill the valley with a compact 
brightness. The horizon above became radiantly white. Gradually 
the swelling light seemed to penetrate into the very structure of 
objects, which became illuminated from within until at last they 
shone translucently like bits of colored glass. Everything turned to 
flaming crystal. The cry of the bell bird rang around the horizon. At 
such moments I felt as if I were inside a temple. It was the most 
sacred hour of the day. I drank in this glory with insatiable delight, or 
rather, in a timeless ecstasy. 

Near my observation point was a high cliff inhabited by big 
baboons. Every morning they sat quietly, almost motionless, on the 
ridge of the cliff facing the sun, whereas throughout the rest of the 
day they ranged noisily through the forest, screeching and 
chattering. Like me, they seemed to be waiting for the sunrise. They 
reminded me of the great baboons of the temple of Abu Simbel in 
Egypt, which perform the gesture of adoration. They tell the same 
story: for untold ages men have worshiped the great god who 
redeems the world by rising out of the darkness as a radiant light in 
the heavens. 

At that time I understood that within the soul from its primordial 
beginnings there has been a desire for light and an irrepressible 
urge to rise out of the primal darkness. When the great night 
comes, everything takes on a note of deep dejection, and every 
soul is seized by an inexpressible longing for light. That is the pent- 
up feeling that can be detected in the eyes of primitives, and also in 



the eyes of animals. There is a sadness in animals' eyes, and we 
never know whether that sadness is bound up with the soul of the 
animal or is a poignant message which speaks to us out of that still 
unconscious existence. That sadness also reflects the mood of 
Africa, the experience of its solitudes. It is a maternal mystery, this 
primordial darkness. That is why the sun's birth in the morning 
strikes the natives as so overwhelmingly meaningful. The moment in 
which light comes is God. That moment brings redemption, release. 
To say that the sun is God is to blur and forget the archetypal 
experience of that moment. "We are glad that the night when the 
spirits are abroad is over now," the natives will say but that is 
already a rationalization. In reality a darkness altogether different 
from natural night broods over the land. It is the psychic primal night 
which is the same today as it has been for countless millions of 
years. The longing for light is the longing for consciousness. 

Our blissful stay on Mt. Elgon neared its end. With heavy hearts we 
struck our tents, promising ourselves that we would return. I could 
not have brought myself to think that this would be the first and the 
last time I would experience this unlooked-for glory. Since then, gold 
has been discovered near Kakamegas, mining has begun, the 
Mau-Mau movement has arisen among those innocent and friendly 
natives, and we too have known a rude awakening from the dream 
of civilization. 

We trekked along the southern slope of Mt. Elgon. Gradually the 
character of the landscape changed. Higher mountains, covered 
with dense jungle, verged on the plain. The color of the inhabitants 
grew blacker; their bodies became clumsier and more massive, 
lacking the grace of the Masai. We were entering the territory of the 
Bugishu, where we stayed some time in the resthouse of 
Bunambale. It is situated at a high altitude, and we had a splendid 
view of the broad Nile valley. From there we went on to Mbala, 



where we were met by two Ford trucks that took us to Jinja, on Lake 
Victoria. We loaded our baggage onto a train of the narrow-gauge 
railroad; once every two weeks it went to Lake Kioga. A paddle- 
wheel steamer whose boiler was fired by wood picked us up and 
after a number of incidents brought us to Masindi Port. There we 
transferred to a truck and so reached Masindi Town, which is 
situated on the plateau that separates Lake Kioga from Albert 
Nyanza. 

In a village on the way from Lake Albert to Rejdf in the Sudan we 
had a very exciting experience. The local chief, a tall, still quite 
young man,' appeared with his retinue. These were the blackest 
Negroes I had ever seen. There was something about the group 
which was not exactly reassuring. The mamur[1] of Nimule had 
given us three askaris as an escort, but I saw that they as well as 
our own boys did not feel at all easy. After all, they had only three 
cartridges each for their rifles. Their presence, consequently, was a 
merely symbolic gesture on the part of the government. 

When the chief proposed that he give a rigoma (dance) in the 
evening, I assented gladly. I hoped that the frolic would bring their 
better nature to the fore. Night had fallen and we were all longing for 
sleep when we heard drums and horn blasts. Soon some sixty men 
appeared, martially equipped with flashing lances, clubs, and 
swords. They were followed at some distance by the women and 
children; even the infants were present, carried on their mothers' 
backs. This was obviously to be a 

1 El mamur, literally, prefect or governor. 

grand social occasion. In spite of the heat, which still hovered 
around ninety-three degrees, a big fire was kindled, and women 
and children formed a circle around it. The men formed an outer 
ring around them, as I had once observed a nervous herd of 



elephants do. I did not know whether I ought to feel pleased or 
anxious about this mass display. I looked around for our boys and 
the government soldiers they had vanished completely from the 
camp! As a gesture of good will, I distributed cigarettes, matches, 
and safety pins. The men's chorus began to sing, vigorous, 
bellicose melodies, not unharmonious, and at the same time began 
to swing their legs. The women and children tripped around the fire; 
the men danced toward it, waving their weapons, then drew back 
again, and then advanced anew, amid savage singing, drumming, 
and trumpeting. 

It was a wild and stirring scene, bathed in the glow of the fire and 
magical moonlight. My English friend and I sprang to our feet and 
mingled with the dancers. I swung my rhinoceros whip, the only 
weapon I had, and danced with them. By their beaming faces I 
could see that they approved of our taking part. Their zeal 
redoubled; the whole company stamped, sang, shouted, sweating 
profusely. Gradually the rhythm of the dance and the drumming 
accelerated. 

In dances such as these, accompanied by such music, the natives 
easily fall into a virtual state of possession. That was the case now. 
As eleven o'clock approached, their excitement began to get out of 
bounds, and suddenly the whole affair took on a highly curious 
aspect. The dancers were being transformed into a wild horde, and 
I became worried about how it would end. I signed to the chief that it 
was time to stop, and that he and his people ought to go to sleep. 
But he kept wanting "just another one." 

I remembered that a countryman of mine, one of the Sarasin 
cousins, on an exploratory expedition in Celebes had been struck 
by a stray spear in the course of such a rigoma. And so, 
disregarding the chiefs pleas, I called the people together, 
distributed cigarettes, and then made the gesture of sleeping. Then 



I swung my rhinoceros whip threateningly, but at the same time 
laughing, and for lack of any better language I swore at them loudly 
in Swiss German that this was enough and they must go home to 
bed and sleep now. It was apparent to the people that I was to 
some extent pretending my anger, but that seems to have struck 
just the right note. General laughter arose; capering, they scattered 
in all directions and vanished into the night. For a long time we 
heard their jovial howls and drumming in the distance. At last 
silence fell, and we dropped into the sleep of exhaustion. 

Our trek came to an end in Rejaf on the Nile. There we stowed our 
gear onto a paddle-wheel steamer which just succeeded in docking 
at Rejaf; the water level was almost too low for it. By this time I was 
feeling burdened by all that I had experienced. A thousand thoughts 
were whirling around me, and it became painfully clear to me that 
my capacity to digest new impressions was quickly approaching its 
limits. The thing to do was to go over all my observations and 
experiences and discover their inner connections. I had written 
down everything worth noting. 

During the entire trip my dreams stubbornly followed the tactic of 
ignoring Africa. They drew exclusively upon scenes from home, and 
thus seemed to say that they considered if it is permissible to 
personify the unconscious processes to this extent the African 
journey not as something real, but rather as a symptomatic or 
symbolic act. Even the most impressive events of the trip were 
rigorously excluded from my dreams. Only once during the entire 
expedition did I dream of a Negro. His face appeared curiously 
familiar to me, but I had to reflect a long time before I could 
determine where I had met him before. Finally it came to me: he 
had been my barber in Chattanooga, Tennessee! An American 
Negro. In the dream he was holding a tremendous, red-hot curling 
iron to my head, intending to make my hair kinky that is, to give me 
Negro hair. I could already feel the painful heat, and awoke with a 



sense of terror. 

I took this dream as a warning from the unconscious; it was saying 
that the primitive was a danger to me. At that time I was obviously 
all too close to "going black". I was suffering an attack of sandfly 
fever which probably reduced my psychic resistance. In order to 
represent a Negro threatening me, my unconscious had invoked a 
twelve-year-old memory of my Negro barber in America, just in 
order to avoid any reminder of the present. 

This curious behavior of my dreams corresponds, incidentally, to a 
phenomenon which was noted during the First World War. Soldiers 
in the field dreamt far less of the war than of their homes. Military 
psychiatrists considered it a basic principle that a man should be 
pulled out of the front lines when he started dreaming too much of 
war scenes, for that meant he no longer possessed any psychic 
defenses against the impressions from outside. 

Parallel to my involvement with this demanding African environment, 
an interior line was being successfully secured within my dreams. 
The dreams dealt with my personal problems. The only thing I could 
conclude from this was that my European personality must under all 
circumstances be preserved intact. 

To my astonishment, the suspicion dawned on me that I had 
undertaken my African adventure with the secret purpose of 
escaping from Europe and its complex of problems, even at the risk 
of remaining in Africa, as so many before me had done, and as so 
many were doing at this very time. The trip revealed itself as less an 
investigation of primitive psychology ("Bugishu Psychological 
Expedition," B.P.E., black letters on the chop boxes!) than a 
probing into the rather embarrassing question: What is going to 
happen to Jung the psychologist in the wilds of Africa? This was a 
question I had constantly sought to evade, in spite of my intellectual 



intention to study the European's reaction to primitive conditions. It 
became clear to me that this study had been not so much an 
objective scientific project as an intensely personal one, and that 
any attempt to go deeper into it touched every possible sore spot in 
my own psychology. I had to admit to myself that it was scarcely the 
Wembley Exhibition which had begotten my decision to travel, but 
rather the fact that the atmosphere had become too highly charged 
forme in Europe. 

Amid such thoughts I glided on the peaceful waters of the Nile 
toward the north toward Europe, toward the future. The voyage 
ended at Khartoum. There Egypt began. And thus I fulfilled my 
desire and my plan to approach this cultural realm not from the 
west, from the direction of Europe and Greece, but from the south, 
from the sources of the Nile. I was less interested in the complex 
Asiatic elements in Egyptian culture than in the Hamitic contribution. 
By following the geographical course of the Nile, and hence the 
stream of time, I could find out something about that for myself. My 
greatest illumination in this respect had been my discovery of the 
Horus principle among the Elgonyi. That whole episode, and all that 
it meant, was dramatically called to mind again when I saw the 
sculptured cynocephali (dog-faced baboons) of Abu Simbel, the 
southern gate of Egypt. 

The myth of Horus is the age-old story of the newly risen divine light. 
It is a myth which must have been told after human culture that is, 
consciousness had for the first time released men from the 
darkness of prehistoric times. Thus the journeyfrom the heart of 
Africa to Egypt became, for me, a kind of drama of the birth of light. 
That drama was intimately connected with me, with my psychology. I 
realized this, but felt incapable of formulating it in words. I had not 
known in advance what Africa would give me; but here lay the 
satisfying answer, the fulfilling experience. It was worth more to me 
than any ethnological yield would have been, any collection of 



weapons, ornaments, pottery, or hunting trophies. I had wanted to 
know how Africa would affect me, and I had found out. 

iv. INDIA [2] 

My journey to India, in 1938, was not taken on my own initiative. It 
arose out of an invitation from the British Government of India to 
take part in the celebrations connected with the twenty-fifth 
anniversary of the University of Calcutta. 

By that time I had read a great deal about Indian philosophy and 
religious history, and was deeply convinced of the value of 

2 On his return from India, Jung contributed two articles to the 
magazine Asia (New York, January and February issues, 1939): 
"The Dreamlike World of India," and "What India Can Teach Us." 
They are included in Civilization in Transition (CW 10). A. J. 

Oriental wisdom. But I had to travel in order to form my own 
conclusions, and remained within myself like a homunculus in the 
retort. India affected me like a dream, for I was and remained in 
search of myself, of the truth peculiar to myself. 

The journey formed an intermezzo in the intensive study of 
alchemical philosophy on which I was engaged at the time. This had 
so strong a grip upon me that I took along the first volume of the 
Theatrum Chemicum of 1602, which contains the principal writings 
of Gerardus Dorneus. In the course of the voyage I studied the book 
from beginning to end. Thus it was that this material belonging to 
the fundamental strata of European thought was constantly 
counterpointed by my impressions of a foreign mentality and 
culture. Both had emerged from original psychic experiences of the 
unconscious, and therefore had produced the same, similar, or at 
least comparable insights. 



India gave me my first direct experience of an alien, highly 
differentiated culture. Altogether different elements had ruled my 
Central African journey; culture had not predominated. As for North 
Africa, I had never had the opportunity there to talk with a person 
capable of putting his culture into words. In India, however, I had the 
chance to speak with representatives of the Indian mentality, and to 
compare it with the European. I had searching talks with S. 
Subramanya Iyer, the guru of the Maharajah of Mysore, whose 
guest I was for some time; also with many others, whose names 
unfortunately have escaped me. On the other hand, I studiously 
avoided all so-called "holy men." I did so because I had to make do 
with my own truth, not accept from others what I could not attain on 
my own. I would have felt it as a theft had I attempted to learn from 
the holy men and to accept their truth for myself. Neither in Europe 
can I make any borrowings from the East, but must shape my life 
out of myself out of what my inner being tells me, or what nature 
brings to me. 

In India I was principally concerned with the question of the 
psychological nature of evil. I had been very much impressed by the 
way this problem is integrated in Indian spiritual life, and I saw it in a 
new light. In a conversation with a cultivated Chinese I was also 
impressed, again and again, by the fact that these people are able 
to integrate so-called "evil" without 'losing face." In the West we 
cannot do this. For the Oriental the problem of morality does not 
appear to take first place, as it does for us. To the Oriental, good 
and evil are meaningfully contained in nature, and are merely 
varying degrees of the same thing. 

I saw that Indian spirituality contains as much of evil as of good. The 
Christian strives for good and succumbs to evil; the Indian feels 
himself to be outside good and evil, and seeks to realize this state 
by meditation or yoga. My objection is that, given such an attitude, 



neither good nor evil takes on any real outline, and this produces a 
certain stasis. One does not really believe in evil, and one does not 
really believe in good. Good or evil are then regarded at most as 
my good or my evil, as whatever seems to me good or evil which 
leaves us with the paradoxical statement that Indian spirituality 
lacks both evil and good, or is so burdened by contradictions that it 
needs nirdvandva, the liberation from opposites and from the ten 
thousand things. 

The Indian's goal is not moral perfection, but the condition of 
nirdvandva. He wishes to free himself from nature; in keeping with 
this aim, he seeks in meditation the condition of imagelessness 
and emptiness. I, on the other hand, wish to persist in the state of 
lively contemplation of nature and of the psychic images. I want to 
be freed neither from human beings, nor from myself, nor from 
nature; for all these appear to me the greatest of miracles. Nature, 
the psyche, and life appear to me like divinity unfolded and what 
more could I wish for? To me the supreme meaning of Being can 
consist only in the fact that it is, not that it is not or is no longer. 

To me there is no liberation a tout prix. I cannot be liberated from 
anything that I do not possess, have not done or experienced. Real 
liberation becomes possible for me only when I have done all that I 
was able to do, when I have completely devoted myself to a thing 
and participated in it to the utmost. If I withdraw from participation, I 
am virtually amputating the corresponding part of my psyche. 
Naturally, there may be good reasons for my not immersing myself 
in a given experience. But then I am forced to confess my inability, 
and must know that I may have neglected to do something of vital 
importance. In this way I make amends for the lack of a positive act 
by the clear knowledge of my incompetence. 

A man who has not passed through the inferno of his passions has 
never overcome them. They then dwell in the house next door, and 



at any moment a flame may dart out and set fire to his own house. 
Whenever we give up, leave behind, and forget too much, there is 
always the danger that the things we have neglected will return with 
added force. 

In Konarak (Orissa) I met a pandit who obligingly offered to come 
with me on my visit to the temple and the great temple car. The 
pagoda is covered from base to pinnacle with exquisitely obscene 
sculptures. We talked for a long time about this extraordinary fact, 
which he explained to me as a means to achieve spiritualization. I 
objected pointing to a group of young peasants who were standing 
open-mouthed before the monument, admiring these splendors that 
such young men were scarcely undergoing spiritualization at the 
moment, but were much more likely having their heads filled with 
sexual fantasies. Whereupon he replied, "But that is just the point. 
How can they ever become spiritualized if they do not first fulfill their 
karma? These admittedly obscene images are here for the very 
purpose of recalling to the people their dharma [law]; otherwise 
these unconscious fellows might forget it." 

I thought it an odd notion that young men might forget their sexuality, 
like animals out of rutting time. My sage, however, resolutely 
maintained that they were as unconscious as animals and actually 
in need of urgent admonishments. To this end, he said, before they 
set foot inside the temple they were reminded of their dharma by 
the exterior decorations; for unless they were made conscious of 
theirdharma and fulfilled it, they could not partake of spiritualization. 

As we entered through the gate of the temple, my companion 
pointed to the two "temptresses," statues of two dancing girls with 
seductively curved hips who smilingly greeted all who entered. "Do 
you see these two dancing girls?" he said. "Their meaning is the 
same. Naturally, this does not apply to people like you and me, for 
we have attained to a level of consciousness which is above this 



sort of thing. But for these peasant boys it is an indispensable 
instruction and admonishment." 

When we left the temple and were walking down a lingam lane, he 
suddenly said, "Do you see these stones? Do you know what they 
mean? I will tell you a great secret." I was astonished, for I thought 
that the phallic nature of these monuments was known to every 
child. But he whispered into my ear with the greatest seriousness, 
"These stones are man's private parts". I had expected him to tell 
me that they signified the great god Shiva. I looked at him 
dumfounded, but he only nodded self- importantly, as if to say, "Yes, 
that is how it is. No doubt you in your European ignorance would 
never have thought so!" When I told this story to Heinrich Zimmer, 
he exclaimed in delight, "At last I have heard something real about 
India for a change!" 

When I visited the stupas of Sanchi, where Buddha delivered his 
fire sermon, I was overcome by a strong emotion of the kind that 
frequently develops in me when I encounter a thing, person, or idea 
of whose significance I am still unconscious. The stupas are 
situated on a rocky hill whose peak can be reached by a pleasant 
path of great stone slabs laid down through a green meadow. The 
stupas are tombs or containers of relics, hemispherical in shape, 
like two gigantic rice bowls placed one on top of the other 
(concavity upon concavity), according to the prescripts of the 
Buddha himself in the Maha-Parinibbana-Sutta. The British have 
done their restoration work in a most respectful spirit. The largest of 
these buildings is surrounded by a wall which has four elaborate 
gates. You come in by one of these and the path turns to the left, 
then leads into a clockwise circumambulation around the stupa. At 
the four cardinal points stand statues of the Buddha. When you 
have completed one circumambulation, you enter a second, higher 
circuit which runs in the same direction. The distant prospect over 
the plain, the stupas themselves, the temple ruins, and the solitary 



stillness of this holy site held me in a spell. I took leave of my 
companion and submerged myself in the overpowering mood of the 
place. 

After a while I heard rhythmic gong tones approaching from the 
distance. A group of Japanese pilgrims came marching up one 
behind the other, each striking a small gong. They were beating out 
the rhythm of the age-old prayer Om mani padme hum, the stroke of 
the gong falling upon the hum. Outside the stupas they bowed low, 
then passed through the gate. There they bowed again before the 
statue of the Buddha, intoning a chorale-like song. They completed 
the double circumambulation, singing a hymn before each statue of 
the Buddha. As I watched them, my mind and spirit were with them, 
and something within me silently thanked them for having so 
wonderfully come to the aid of my inarticulate feelings. 

The intensity of my emotion showed that the hill of Sanchi meant 
something central to me. A new side of Buddhism was revealed to 
me there. I grasped the life of the Buddha as the reality of the self 
which had broken through and laid claim to a personal life. For 
Buddha, the self stands above all gods, a unus mundus which 
represents the essence of human existence and of the world as a 
whole. The self embodies both the aspect of intrinsic being and the 
aspect of its being, known, without which no world exists. Buddha 
saw and grasped the cosmogonic dignity of human consciousness; 
for that reason he saw clearly that if a man succeeded in 
extinguishing this light, the world would sink into nothingness. 
Schopenhauer's great achievement lay in his also recognizing this, 
or rediscovering it independently. 

Christ like Buddha is an embodiment of the self, but in an altogether 
different sense. Both stood for an overcoming of the world: Buddha 
out of rational insight; Christ as a foredoomed sacrifice. In 
Christianity more is suffered, in Buddhism more is seen and done. 



Both paths are right, but in the Indian sense Buddha is the more 
complete human being. He is a historical personality, and therefore 
easier for men to understand. Christ is at once a historical man and 
God, and therefore much more difficult to comprehend. At bottom 
he was not comprehensible even to himself; he knew only that he 
had to sacrifice himself, that this course was imposed upon him 
from within. His sacrifice happened to him like an act of destiny. 
Buddha lived out his life and died at an advanced age, whereas 
Christ's activity as Christ probably lasted no more than a year. 

Later, Buddhism underwent the same transformation as 
Christianity: Buddha became, as it were, the image of the 
development of the self; he became a model for men to imitate, 
whereas actually he had preached that by overcoming the Nidana- 
chain every human being could become an illuminate, a buddha. 
Similarly, in Christianity, Christ is an exemplar who dwells in every 
Christian as his integral personality. But historical trends led to the 
imitatio Christi, whereby the individual does not pursue his own 
destined road to wholeness, but attempts to imitate the way taken 
by Christ. Similarly in the East, historical trends led to a devout 
imitation of the Buddha. That Buddha should have become a model 
to be imitated was in itself a weakening of his idea, just as the 
imitatio Christi was a forerunner of the fateful stasis in the evolution 
of the Christian idea. As Buddha, by virtue of his insight, was far in 
advance of the Brahma gods, so Christ cried out to the Jews, "You 
are gods" (John 10:34) ; but men were incapable of understanding 
what he meant. Instead we find that the so-called Christian West, far 
from creating a new world, is moving with giant strides toward the 
possibility of destroying the world we have. [3] 

India honored me with three doctorates, from Allahabad, Benares, 
and Calcutta representatives of Islam, of Hinduism, and of British- 
Indian medicine and science. It was a little too much of a good 
thing, and I needed a retreat. A ten-day spell in the hospital offered 



it to me, for in Calcutta I finally came down with dysentery. This was 
a blessed island in the wild sea of new impressions, and I found a 
place to stand on from which I could contemplate the ten thousand 
things and their bewildering turmoil. 

When I returned to the hotel, in tolerably good health, I had a dream 
so characteristic that I wish to set it down here. I found myself, with a 
large number of my Zurich friends and acquaintances, on an 
unknown island, presumably situated not far off the coast of 
southern England. It was small and almost uninhabited. The island 
was narrow, a strip of land about twenty miles long, running in a 
north-south direction. On the rocky coast at the southern end of the 
island was a medieval castle. 

3 On the problem of the imitatio, cf. Psychology and Alchemy, Part I (CW 
12). 

We stood in its courtyard, a group of sightseeing tourists. Before us 
rose an imposing 'belfroi', through whose gate a wide stone 
staircase was visible. We could just manage to see that it 
terminated above in a columned hall. This hall was dimly illuminated 
by candlelight. I understood that this was the castle of the Grail, and 
that this evening there would be a "celebration of the Grail" here. 
This information seemed to be of a secret character, for a German 
professor among us, who strikingly resembled old Mommsen, knew 
nothing about it. I talked most animatedly with him, and was 
impressed by his learning and sparkling intelligence. Only one thing 
disturbed me: he spoke constantly about a dead past and lectured 
very learnedly on the relationship of the British to the French 
sources of the Grail story. Apparently he was not conscious of the 
meaning of the legend, nor of its living presentness, whereas I was 
intensely aware of both. Also, he did not seem to perceive our 
immediate, actual surroundings, for he behaved as though he were 
in a classroom, lecturing to his students. In vain I tried to call his 



attention to the peculiarity of the situation. He did not see the stairs 
or the festive glow in the hall. 

I looked around somewhat helplessly, and discovered that I was 
standing by the wall of a tall castle; the lower portion of the wall was 
covered by a kind of trellis, not made of the usual wood, but of black 
iron artfully formed into a grapevine com- plete with leaves, twining 
tendrils, and grapes. At intervals of six feet on the horizontal 
branches were tiny houses, likewise of iron, like birdhouses. 
Suddenly I saw a movement in the foliage; at first it seemed to be 
that of a mouse, but then I saw distinctly a tiny, iron, hooded gnome, 
a cucullatus, scurrying from one little house to the next. "Well," I 
exclaimed in astonishment to the professor, "now look at that, will 
you..." 

At that moment a hiatus occurred, and the dream changed. We-the 
same company as before, but without the professor- were outside 
the castle, in a treeless, rocky landscape. 1 knew that something 
had to happen, for the Grail was not yet in the castle and still had to 
be celebrated that same evening. It was said to be in the northern 
part of the island, hidden in a small, uninhabited house, the only 
house there. I knew that it was our task to bring the Grail to the 
castle. There were about six of us who set out and tramped 
northward. 

After several hours of strenuous hiking, we reached the narrowest 
part of the island, and I discovered that the island was actually 
divided into two halves by an arm of the sea. At the smallest part of 
this strait the width of the water was about a hundred yards. The sun 
had set, and night descended. Wearily, we camped on the ground. 
The region was unpopulated and desolate; far and wide there was 
not a tree or shrub, nothing but grass and rocks. There was no 
bridge, no boat. It was very cold; my companions fell asleep, one 
after the other. I considered what could be done, and came to the 



conclusion that I alone must swim across the channel and fetch the 
Grail. I took off my clothes. At that point I awoke. 

Here was this essentially European dream emerging when I had 
barely worked my way out of the overwhelming mass of Indian 
impressions. Some ten years before, I had discovered that in many 
places in England the myth of the Grail was still a living thing, in 
spite of all the scholarship that has accumulated around this 
tradition. This fact had impressed me all the more when I realized 
the concordance between this poetic myth and what alchemy had to 
say about the unum vas, the una medicina, and the unus lapis. 
Myths which day has forgotten continue to be told by night, and 
powerful figures which consciousness has reduced to banality and 
ridiculous triviality are recognized again by poets and prophetically 
revived; therefore they can also be recognized "in changed form" by 
the thoughtful person. The great ones of the past have not died, as 
we think; they have merely changed their names. "Small and slight, 
but great in might," the veiled Kabir enters a new house. 

Imperiously, the dream wiped away all the intense impressions of 
India and swept me back to the too-long-neglected concerns of the 
Occident, which had formerly been expressed in the quest for the 
Holy Grail as well as in the search for the philosophers' stone. I was 
taken out of the world of India, and reminded that India was not my 
task, but only a part of the way -admittedly a significant one which 
should carry me closer to my goal. It was as though the dream were 
asking me, "What are you doing in India? Rather seek for yourself 
and your fellows the healing vessel, the servator mundi, which you 
urgently need. For your state is perilous; you are all in imminent 
danger of destroying all that centuries have built up." 

Ceylon, the last stage of my journey, struck me as no longer India; 
there is already something of the South Seas about it, and a touch 
of paradise, in which one cannot linger too long. Colombo is a busy 



international port where every day between five and six o'clock a 
massive downpour descends from a clear sky. We soon left it 
behind and headed for the hilly country of the interior. There Kandy, 
the old royal city, is swathed in a fine mist whose tepid humidity 
sustains a luxuriant vegetation. The Dalada-Maligawa Temple, 
which contains the relic of the Holy Tooth (of Buddha), is small, but 
radiates a special charm. I spent a considerable time in its library, 
talking with the monks, and looking at the texts of the Buddhist 
canon engraved on silver leaves. 

There I witnessed a memorable evening ceremony. Young men and 
girls poured out enormous mounds of jasmine flowers in front of the 
altars, at the same time singing a prayer under their breath: a 
mantram. I thought they were praying to Buddha, but the monk who 
was guiding me explained, "No, Buddha is no more; He is in 
nirvana; we cannot pray to him. They are singing: This life is 
transitory as the beauty of these flowers. May my God [4] share with 
me the merit of this offering.' " 

As a prelude to the ceremony a one-hour drum concert was 
performed in the mandapam, or what in Indian temples is called the 
hall of waiting. There were five drummers; one stood in each corner 
of the square hall, and the fifth, a young man, stood in the middle. 
He was the soloist, and a very fine drummer. Naked to the waist, his 
dark-brown trunk glistening, with a red girdle, white shoka (a long 
skirt reaching to the feet), and white turban, arms covered with 
shining bracelets, he stepped up to the golden Buddha, bearing a 
double drum, "to sacrifice the music." There, with beautiful 
movements of body and arms, he drummed alone a strange 
melody, artistically perfect. I watched 

4 God = deva = guardian angel, 
him from behind; he stood in front of the entrance to the mandapam, 



which was covered with little oil lamps. The drum speaks the 
ancient language of the belly and solar plexus; the belly does not 
"pray" but engenders the "meritorious" mantram or meditative 
utterance. It is therefore not adoration of a non-existent Buddha, but 
one of the many acts of self-redemption performed by the 
awakened human being. 

Toward the beginning of spring I set out on my homeward voyage, 
with such a plethora of impressions that I did not have any desire to 
leave the ship to see Bombay. Instead, I buried myself in my Latin 
alchemical texts. But India did not pass me by without a trace; it left 
tracks which lead from one infinity into another infinity. 

v. Ravenna And Rome 

Even on the occasion of my first visit to Ravenna in 1913, the tomb 
of Galla Placidia seemed to me significant and unusually 
fascinating. The second time, twenty years later, I had the same 
feeling. Once more I fell into a strange mood in the tomb of Galla 
Placidia; once more I was deeply stirred. I was there with an 
acquaintance, and we went directly from the tomb into the 
Baptistery of the Orthodox. 

Here, what struck me first was the mild blue light that filled the room; 
yet I did not wonder about this at all. I did not try to account for its 
source, and so the wonder of this light without any visible source did 
not trouble me. I was somewhat amazed because, in place of the 
windows I remembered having seen on my first visit, there were 
now four great mosaic frescoes of incredible beauty which, it 
seemed, I had entirely forgotten. I was vexed to find my memory so 
unreliable. The mosaic on the south side represented the baptism 
in the Jordan; the second picture, on the north, was of the passage 
of the Children of Israel through the Red Sea; the third, on the east, 
soon faded from my memory. It might have shown Naaman being 



cleansed of leprosy in the Jordan; there was a picture on this theme 
in the old Merian Bible in my library, which was much like the 
mosaic. 

The fourth mosaic, on the west side of the baptistery, was the most 
impressive of all. We looked at this one last. It represented Christ 
holding out his hand to Peter, who was sinking beneath the waves. 
We stopped in front of this mosaic for at least twenty minutes and 
discussed the original ritual of baptism, especially the curious 
archaic conception of it as an initiation connected with real peril of 
death. Such initiations were often connected with the peril of death 
and so served to express the archetypal idea of death and rebirth. 
Baptism had originally been a real submersion which at least 
suggested the danger of drowning. 

I retained the most distinct memory of the mosaic of Peter sinking, 
and to this day can see every detail before my eyes: the blue of the 
sea, individual chips of the mosaic, the inscribed scrolls 
proceeding from the mouths of Peter and Christ, which I attempted 
to decipher. After we left the baptistery, I went promptly to Alinari to 
buy photographs of the mosaics, but could not find any. Time was 
pressing this was only a short visit and so I postponed the purchase 
until later. I thought I might order the pictures from Zurich. 

When 1 was back home, I asked an acquaintance who was going to 
Ravenna to obtain the pictures for me. He could not locate them, for 
he discovered that the mosaics I had described did not exist. 

Meanwhile, I had already spoken at a seminar about the original 
conception of baptism, and on this occasion had also mentioned 
the mosaics that I had seen in the Baptistery of the Orthodox. [5] 
The memory of those pictures is still vivid to me. The lady who had 
been there with me long refused to believe that what she had "seen 
with her own eyes" had not existed. 



As we know, it is very difficult to determine whether, and to what 
extent, two persons simultaneously see the same thing. In this case, 
however, I was able to ascertain that at least the main features of 
what we both saw had been the same. 

This experience in Ravenna is among the most curious events in 
my life. It can scarcely be explained. A certain light may possibly be 
cast on it by an incident in the story of Empress 

5 Tantra Yoga Seminar, 1932. 

Galla Placidia (d. 450). During a stormy crossing from Byzantium to 
Ravenna in the worst of winter, she made a vow that if she came 
through safely, she would build a church and have the perils of the 
sea represented in it. She kept this vow by building the basilica of 
San Giovanni in Ravenna and having it adorned with mosaics. In 
the early Middle Ages, San Giovanni, together with its mosaics, 
was destroyed by fire; but in the Ambrosiana in Milan is still to be 
found a sketch representing Galla Placidia in a boat. 

I had, from the first visit, been personally affected by the figure of 
Galla Placidia, and had often wondered how it must have been for 
this highly cultivated, fastidious woman to live at the side of a 
barbarian prince. Her tomb seemed to me a final legacy through 
which I might reach her personality. Her fate and her whole being 
were vivid presences to me; with her intense nature, she was a 
suitable embodiment for my anima. [6] 

The anima of a man has a strongly historical character. As a 
personification of the unconscious she goes back into prehistory, 
and embodies the contents of the past. She provides the individual 
with those elements that he ought to know about his pre-history. To 
the individual, the anima is all life that has been in the past and is 
still alive in him. In comparison to her I have always felt myself to be 



a barbarian who really has no history like a creature just sprung out 
of nothingness, with neither a past nor a future. 

In the course of my confrontation with the anima I had actually had a 
brush with those perils which I saw represented in the mosaics. I 
had come close to drowning. The same thing happened to me as to 
Peter, who cried for help and was rescued by Jesus. What had 
been the fate of Pharaoh's army could have been mine. Like Peter 
and like Naaman, I came away unscathed, and the integration of the 
unconscious contents made an essential contribution to the 
completion of my personality. 

6 Jung himself explained the vision as a momentary new creation 
by the unconscious, arising out of his thoughts about archetypal 
initiation. The immediate cause of the concretization lay, in his 
opinion, in a projection of his anima upon Galla Placidia. A. J. 

What happens within oneself when one integrates previously 
unconscious contents with the consciousness is something which 
can scarcely be described in words. It can only be experienced. It is 
a subjective affair quite beyond discussion; we have a particular 
feeling about ourselves, about the way we are, and that is a fact 
which it is neither possible nor meaningful to doubt. Similarly, we 
convey a particular feeling to others, and that too is a fact that 
cannot be doubted. So far as we know, there is no higher authority 
which could eliminate the probable discrepancies between all these 
impressions and opinions. Whether a change has taken place as 
the result of integration, and what the nature of that change is, 
remains a matter of subjective conviction. To be sure, it is not a fact 
which can be scientifically verified and therefore finds no place in 
an official view of the world. Yet it nevertheless remains a fact which 
is in practice uncommonly important and fraught with 
consequences. Realistic psychotherapists, at any rate, and 
psychologists interested in therapy, can scarcely afford to overlook 



facts of this sort. 

Since my experience in the baptistery in Ravenna, I know with 
certainty that something interior can seem to be exterior, and that 
something exterior can appear to be interior. The actual walls of the 
baptistery, though they must have been seen by my physical eyes, 
were covered over by a vision of some altogether different sight 
which was as completely real as the unchanged baptismal font. 
Which was real at that moment? 

My case is by no means the only one of its kind. But when that sort 
of thing happens to oneself, one cannot help taking it more 
seriously than something heard or read about. In general, with 
anecdotes of that kind, one is quick to think of all sorts of 
explanations which dispose of the mystery. I have come to the 
conclusion that before we settle upon any theories in regard to the 
unconscious, we require many, many more experiences of it. 

I have traveled a great deal in my life, and I should very much have 
liked to go to Rome, but I felt that I was not really up to the 
impression the city would have made upon me. Pompeii alone was 
more than enough; the impressions very nearly exceeded my 
powers of receptivity. I was able to visit Pompeii only after I had 
acquired, through my studies of 1910 to 1912, some insight into the 
psychology of classical antiquity. In 1912 I was on a ship sailing 
from Genoa to Naples. As the vessel neared the latitude of Rome, I 
stood at the railing. Out there lay Rome, the still smoking and fiery 
hearth from which ancient cultures had spread, enclosed in the 
tangled rootwork of the Christian and Occidental Middle Ages. 
There classical antiquity still lived in all its splendor and 
ruthlessness. 

I always wonder about people who go to Rome as they might go, for 
example, to Paris or to London. Certainly Rome as well as these 



other cities can be enjoyed esthetically; but if you are affected to the 
depths of your being at every step by the spirit that broods there, if 
a remnant of a wall here and a column there gaze upon you with a 
face instantly recognized, then it becomes another matter entirely. 
Even in Pompeii unforeseen vistas opened, unexpected things 
became conscious, and questions were posed which were beyond 
my powers to handle. 

In my old age in 1949 I wished to repair this omission, but was 
stricken with a faint while I was buying tickets. After that, the plans 
for a trip to Rome were once and for all laid aside. 



Visions 



A THE BEGINNING of 1944 I broke my foot, and this misadventure 
was followed by a heart attack. In a state of unconsciousness I 
experienced deliriums and visions which must have begun when I 
hung on the edge of death and was being given oxygen and 
camphor injections. The images were so tremendous that I myself 
concluded that I was close to death. My nurse afterward told me, "It 
was as if you were surrounded by a bright glow" That was a 
phenomenon she had sometimes observed in the dying, she 
added. I had reached the outermost limit, and do not know whether I 
was in a dream or an ecstasy. At any rate, extremely strange things 
began to happen to me. 

It seemed to me that I was high up in space. Far below I saw the 
globe of the earth, bathed in a gloriously blue light. I saw the deep 
blue sea and the continents. Far below my feet lay Ceylon, and in 
the distance ahead of me the subcontinent of India. My field of 
vision did not include the whole earth, but its global shape was 
plainly distinguishable and its outlines shone with a silvery gleam 
through that wonderful blue light. In many places the globe seemed 
colored, or spotted dark green like oxydized silver. Far away to the 
left lay a broad expanse the reddish-yellow desert of Arabia; it was 
as though the silver of the earth had there assumed a reddish-gold 
hue. Then came the Red Sea, and far, far back as if in the upper left 
of a map I could just make out a bit of the Mediterranean. My gaze 
was directed chiefly toward that. Everything else appeared 
indistinct. I could also see the snow-covered Himalayas, but in that 



direction it was foggy or cloudy. I did not look to the right at all. I 
knew that I was on the point of departing from the earth. 

Later I discovered how high in space one would have to be to have 
so extensive a view approximately a thousand miles! The sight of 
the earth from this height was the most glorious thing I had ever 
seen. 

After contemplating it for a while, I turned around. I had been 
standing with my back to the Indian Ocean, as it were, and my face 
to the north. Then it seemed to me that I made a turn to the south. 
Something new entered my field of vision. A short distance away I 
saw in space a tremendous dark block of stone, like a meteorite. It 
was about the size of my house, or even bigger. It was floating in 
space, and I myself was floating in space. 

I had seen similar stones on the coast of the Gulf of Bengal. They 
were blocks of tawny granite, and some of them had been hollowed 
out into temples. My stone was one such gigantic dark block. An 
entrance led into a small antechamber. To the right of the entrance, 
a black Hindu sat silently in lotus posture upon a stone bench. He 
wore a white gown, and I knew that he expected me. Two steps led 
up to this antechamber, and inside, on the left, was the gate to the 
temple. Innumerable tiny niches, each with a saucer-like concavity 
filled with coconut oil and small burning wicks, surrounded the door 
with a wreath of bright flames. I had once actually seen this when I 
visited the Temple of the Holy Tooth at Kandy in Ceylon; the gate 
had been framed by several rows of burning oil lamps of this sort. 

As I approached the steps leading up to the entrance into the rock, 
a strange thing happened: I had the feeling that everything was 
being sloughed away; everything I aimed at or wished for or 
thought, the whole phantasmagoria of earthly existence, fell away or 
was stripped from me an extremely painful process. Nevertheless 



something remained; it was as if I now carried along with me 
everything I had ever experienced or done, everything that had 
happened around me. I might also say: it was with me, and I was it. I 
consisted of all that, so to speak. I consisted of my own history, and 
I felt with great certainty: this is what I am. "I am this bundle of what 
has been, and what has been accomplished." 

This experience gave me a feeling of extreme poverty, but at the 
same time of great fullness. There was no longer anything I wanted 
or desired. I existed in an objective form; I was what I had been and 
lived. At first the sense of annihilation predominated, of having been 
stripped or pillaged; but suddenly that became of no consequence. 
Everything seemed to be past; what remained was a fait accompli, 
without any reference back to what had been. There was no longer 
any regret that something had dropped away or been taken away. 
On the contrary: I had everything that I was, and that was everything. 

Something else engaged my attention: as I approached the temple I 
had the certainty that I was about to enter an illuminated room and 
would meet there all those people to whom I belong in reality. There 
I would at last understand this too was a certainty what historical 
nexus I or my life fitted into. I would know what had been before me, 
why I had come into being, and where my life was flowing. My life as 
I lived it had often seemed to me like a story that has no beginning 
and no end. I had the feeling that I was a historical fragment, an 
excerpt for which the preceding and succeeding text was missing. 
My life seemed to have been snipped out of a long chain of events, 
and many questions had remained unanswered. Why had it taken 
this course? Why had I brought these particular assumptions with 
me? What had I made of them? What will follow? I felt sure that I 
would receive an answer to all these questions as soon as I entered 
the rock temple. There I would learn why everything had been thus 
and not otherwise. There I would meet the people who knew the 
answer to my question about what had been before and what would 



come after. 

While I was thinking over these matters, something happened that 
caught my attention. From below, from the direction of Europe, an 
image floated up. It was my doctor, Dr. H. or, rather, his likeness 
framed by a golden chain or a golden laurel wreath. I knew at once: 
"Aha, this is my doctor, of course, the one who has been treating 
me. But now he is coming in his primal form, as a basileus of 
Kos.[1] In life he was an avatar of this basileus, the temporal 
embodiment of the primal form, which has existed from the 
beginning. Now he is appearing in that primal form". 

Presumably I too was in my primal form, though this was something 
I did not observe but simply took for granted. As he stood before 
me, a mute exchange of thought took place between us. Dr. H. had 
been delegated by the earth to deliver a message to me, to tell me 
that there was a protest against my going away, I had no right to 
leave the earth and must return. The moment I heard that, the vision 
ceased. 

I was profoundly disappointed, for now it all seemed to have been 
for nothing. The painful process of defoliation had been in vain, and 
I was not to be allowed to enter the temple, to join the people in 
whose company I belonged. 

In reality, a good three weeks were still to pass before I could truly 
make up my mind to live again. I could not eat because all food 
repelled me. The view of city and mountains from my sickbed 
seemed to me like a painted curtain with black holes in it, or a 
tattered sheet of newspaper full of photographs that meant nothing. 
Disappointed, I thought, "Now I must return to the 'box system' 
again." For it seemed to me as if behind the horizon of the cosmos 
a three-dimensional world had been artificially built up, in which 
each person sat by himself in a little box. And now I should have to 



convince myself all over again that this was important! Life and the 
whole world struck me as a prison, and it bothered me beyond 
measure that I should again be finding all that quite in order. I had 
been so glad to shed it all, and now it had come about that I along 
with everyone else would again be hung up in a box by a thread. 
While I floated in space, I had been weightless, and there had been 
nothing tugging at me. And now all that was to be a thing of the 
past! 

1 Basileus king. Kos was famous in antiquity as the site of the temple of 
Asklepios, and was the birthplace of Hippocrates. A. J. 

I felt violent resistance to my doctor because he had brought me 
back to life. At the same time, I was worried about him. "His life is in 
danger, for heaven's sake! He has appeared to me in his primal 
form! When anybody attains this form it means he is going to die, 
for already he belongs to the 'greater company'!" Suddenly the 
terrifying thought came to me that Dr. H. would have to die in my 
stead. I tried my best to talk to him about it, but he did not 
understand me. Then I became angry with him. "Why does he 
always pretend he doesn't know he is a basileus of Kos? And that 
he has already assumed his primal form? He wants to make me 
believe that he doesn't know!" That irritated me. My wife reproved 
me for being so unfriendly to him. She was right; but at the time I 
was angry with him for stubbornly refusing to speak of all that had 
passed between us in my vision. "Damn it all, he ought to watch his 
step. He has no right to be so reckless! I want to tell him to take 
care of himself." I was firmly convinced that his life was in jeopardy. 

In actual fact I was his last patient. On April 4, 1944 I still remember 
the exact date I was allowed to sit up on the edge of my bed for the 
first time since the beginning of my illness, and on this same day 
Dr. H. took to his bed and did not leave it again. I heard that he was 
having intermittent attacks of fever. Soon afterward he died of 



septicemia. He was a good doctor; there was something of the 
genius about him. Otherwise he would not have appeared to me as 
a prince of Kos. 

During those weeks I lived in a strange rhythm. By day I was usually 
depressed. I felt weak and wretched, and scarcely dared to stir. 
Gloomily, I thought, "Now I must go back to this drab world." Toward 
evening I would fall asleep, and my sleep would last until about 
midnight. Then I would come to myself and lie awake for about an 
hour, but in an utterly transformed state. It was as if I were in an 
ecstasy. I felt as though I were floating in space, as though I were 
safe in the womb of the universe in a tremendous void, but filled 
with the highest possible feeling of happiness. "This is eternal 
bliss," I thought. "This cannot be described; it is far too wonderful!" 

Everything around me seemed enchanted. At this hour of the night 
the nurse brought me some food she had warmed for only then was 
I able to take any, and I ate with appetite. For a time it seemed to 
me that she was an old Jewish woman, much older than she 
actually was, and that she was preparing ritual kosher dishes for 
me. When I looked at her, she seemed to have a blue halo around 
her head. I myself was, so it seemed, in the Pardes Rimmonim, the 
garden of pomegranates, [2] and the wedding of Tifereth with 
Malchuth was taking place. Or else I was Rabbi Simon ben Jochai, 
whose wedding in the afterlife was being celebrated. It was the 
mystic marriage as it appears in the Cabbalistic tradition. I cannot 
tell you how wonderful it was. I could only think continually, "Now this 
is the garden of pomegranates! Now this is the marriage of 
Malchuth with Tifereth!" I do not know exactly what part I played in it. 
At bottom it was I myself: I was the marriage. And my beatitude was 
that of a blissful wedding. 

Gradually the garden of pomegranates faded away and changed. 
There followed the Marriage of the Lamb, in a Jerusalem festively 



bedecked. I cannot describe what it was like in detail. These were 
ineffable states of joy. Angels were present, and light. I myself was 
the "Marriage of the Lamb." 

That, too, vanished, and there came a new image, the last vision. I 
walked up a wide valley to the end, where a gentle chain of hills 
began. The valley ended in a classical amphi-theater. It was 
magnificently situated in the green landscape. And there, in this 
theater, the hierosgamos was being celebrated. Men and women 
dancers came onstage, and upon a flower-decked couch All-father 
Zeus and Hera consummated the mystic marriage, as it is 
described in the Iliad. 

All these experiences were glorious. Night after night I floated in a 
state of purest bliss, "thronged round with images of all creation." 
[3] Gradually, the motifs mingled and paled. Usually the visions 
lasted for about an hour; then I would fall asleep again. By the time 
morning drew near, I would feel: Now gray morning is coming again; 
now comes the gray world with its boxes! What idiocy, what 
hideous nonsense! Those inner states were so fantastically 
beautiful that by comparison this world appeared downright 
ridiculous. As I approached closer to life again, they grew fainter, 
and scarcely three weeks after the first vision they ceased 
altogether. 

2 Pardes Rimmonim is the title of an old Cabbalistic tract by Moses 
Cordovero (sixteenth century). In Cabbalistic doctrine Malchuth and THereth 
are two of the ten spheres of divine manifestation in which God emerges 
from his hidden state. They represent the female and male principles within 
the Godhead. 

3 Faust, Part Two. 

It is impossible to convey the beauty and intensity of emotion during 
those visions. They were the most tremendous things I have ever 



experienced. And what a contrast the day was: I was tormented and 
on edge; everything irritated me; everything was too material, too 
crude and clumsy, terribly limited both spatially and spiritually. It was 
all an imprisonment, for reasons impossible to divine, and yet it had 
a kind of hypnotic power, a cogency, as if it were reality itself, for all 
that I had clearly perceived its emptiness. Although my belief in the 
world returned to me, I have never since entirely freed myself of the 
impression that this life is a segment of existence which is enacted 
in a three-dimensional boxlike universe especially set up for it. 

There is something else I quite distinctly remember. At the 
beginning, when I was having the vision of the garden of 
pomegranates, I asked the nurse to forgive me if she were harmed. 
There was such sanctity in the room, I said, that it might be harmful 
to her. Of course she did not understand me. For me the presence 
of sanctity had a magical atmosphere; I feared it might be 
unendurable to others. I understood then why one speaks of the 
odor of sanctity, of the "sweet smell" of the Holy Ghost. This was it. 
There was a pneuma of inexpressible sanctity in the room, whose 
manifestation was the mysterium coniunctionis. 

I would never have imagined that any such experience was 
possible. It was not a product of imagination. The visions and 
experiences were utterly real; there was nothing subjective about 
them; they all had a quality of absolute objectivity. 

We shy away from the word "eternal," but I can describe the 
experience only as the ecstasy of a non-temporal state in which 
present, past, and future are one. Everything that happens in time 
had been brought together into a concrete whole. Nothing was 
distributed over time, nothing could be measured by temporal 
concepts. The experience might best be defned as a state of 
feeling, but one which cannot be produced by imagination. How can 
I imagine that I exist simultaneously the day before yesterday, today, 



and the day after tomorrow? There would be things which would not 
yet have begun, other things which would be indubitably present, 
and others again which would already be finished and yet all this 
would be one. The only thing that feeling could grasp would be a 
sum, an iridescent whole, containing all at once expectation of a 
beginning, surprise at what is now happening, and satisfaction or 
disappointment with the result of what has happened. One is 
interwoven into an indescribable whole and yet observes it with 
complete objectivity. 

I experienced this objectivity once again later on. That was after the 
death of my wife. I saw her in a dream which was like a vision. She 
stood at some distance from me, looking at me squarely. She was 
in her prime, perhaps about thirty, and wearing the dress which had 
been made for her many years before by my cousin the medium. It 
was perhaps the most beautiful thing she had ever worn. Her 
expression was neither joyful nor sad, but, rather, objectively wise 
and understanding, without the slightest emotional reaction, as 
though she were beyond the mist of affects. I knew that it was not 
she, but a portrait she had made or commissioned for me. It 
contained the beginning of our relationship, the events of fifty-three 
years of marriage, and the end of her life also. Face to face with 
such wholeness one remains speechless, for it can scarcely be 
comprehended. 

The objectivity which I experienced in this dream and in the visions 
is part of a completed individuation. It signifies detachment from 
valuations and from what we call emotional ties. In general, 
emotional ties are very important to human beings. But they still 
contain projections, and it is essential to withdraw these projections 
in order to attain to oneself and to objectivity. Emotional 
relationships are relationships of desire, tainted by coercion and 
constraint; something is expected from the other person, and that 
makes him and ourselves unfree. Objective cognition lies hidden 



behind the attraction of the emotional relationship; it seems to be 
the central secret. Only through objective cognition is the real 
coniunctio possible. 

After the illness a fruitful period of work began for me. A good many 
of my principal works were written only then. The insight I had had, 
or the vision of the end of all things, gave me the courage to 
undertake new formulations. I no longer attempted to put across my 
own opinion, but surrendered myself to the current of my thoughts. 
Thus one problem after the other revealed itself to me and took 
shape. 

Something else, too, came to me from my illness. I might formulate 
it as an affirmation of things as they are: an unconditional "yes" to 
that which is, without subjective protests acceptance of the 
conditions of existence as I see them and understand them, 
acceptance of my own nature, as I happen to be. At the beginning 
of the illness I had the feeling that there was something wrong with 
my attitude, and that I was to some extent responsible for the 
mishap. But when one follows the path of individuation, when one 
lives one's own life, one must take mistakes into the bargain; life 
would not be complete without them. There is no guarantee not for a 
single moment that we will not fall into error or stumble into deadly 
peril. We may think there is a sure road. But that would be the road 
of death. Then nothing happens any longer at any rate, not the right 
things. Anyone who takes the sure road is as good as dead. 

It was only after the illness that I understood how important it is to 
affirm one's own destiny. In this way we forge an ego that does not 
break down when incomprehensible things happen; an ego that 
endures, that endures the truth, and that is capable of coping with 
the world and with fate. Then, to experience defeat is also to 
experience victory. Nothing is disturbed neither inwardly nor 
outwardly, for one's own continuity has withstood the current of life 



and of time. But that can come to pass only when one does not 
meddle inquisitively with the workings of fate. 

I have also realized that one must accept the thoughts that go on 
within oneself of their own accord as part of one's reality. The 
categories of true and false are, of course, always present; but 
because they are not binding they take second place. The 
presence of thoughts is more important than our subjective 
judgment of them. But neither must these judgments be 
suppressed, for they also are existent thoughts which are part of our 
wholeness. 



XI 



On Life after Death 



WHAT I HAVE to tell about the hereafter, and about life after death, 
consists entirely of memories, of images in which I have lived and of 
thoughts which have buffeted me. These memories in a way also 
underlie my works; for the latter are fundamentally nothing but 
attempts, ever renewed, to give an answer to the question of the 
interplay between the "here" and the "hereafter." Yet I have never 
written expressly about a life after death; for then I would have had 
to document my ideas, and I have no way of doing that. Be that as it 
may, I would like to state my ideas now. 

Even now I can do no more than tell stories "mythologize." Perhaps 
one has to be close to death to acquire the necessary freedom to 
talk about it. It is not that I wish we had a life after death. In fact, I 
would prefer not to foster such ideas. Still, I must state, to give 
reality its due, that, without my wishing and without my doing 
anything about it, thoughts of this nature move about within me. I 
can't say whether these thoughts are true or false, but I do know they 
are there, and can be given utterance, if I do not repress them out of 
some prejudice. Prejudice cripples and injures the full phenomenon 
of psychic life. And I know too little about psychic life to feel that I 
can set it right out of superior knowledge. Critical rationalism has 
apparently eliminated, along with so many other mythic 
conceptions, the idea of life after death. This could only have 
happened because nowadays most people identify themselves 
almost exclusively with their consciousness, and imagine that they 
are only what they know about themselves. Yet anyone with even a 



smattering of psychology can see how limited this knowledge is. 
Rationalism and doctrinairism are the disease of our time; they 
pretend to have all the answers. But a great deal will yet be 
discovered which our present limited view would have ruled out as 
impossible. Our concepts of space and time have only approximate 
validity, and there is therefore a wide field for minor and major 
deviations. In view of all this, I lend an attentive ear to the strange 
myths of the psyche, and take a careful look at the varied events 
that come my way, regardless of whether or not they fit in with my 
theoretical postulates. 

Unfortunately, the mythic side of man is given short shrift nowadays. 
He can no longer create fables. As a result, a great deal escapes 
him; for it is important and salutary to speak also of 
incomprehensible things. Such talk is like the telling of a good ghost 
story, as we sit by the fireside and smoke a pipe. 

What the myths or stories about a life after death really mean, or 
what kind of reality lies behind them, we certainly do not know. We 
cannot tell whether they possess any validity beyond their 
indubitable value as anthropomorphic projections. Rather, we must 
hold clearly in mind that there is no possible way for us to attain 
certainty concerning things which pass our understanding. 

We cannot visualize another world ruled by quite other laws, the 
reason being that we live in a specific world which has helped to 
shape our minds and establish our basic psychic conditions. We 
are strictly limited by our innate structure and therefore bound by our 
whole being and thinking to this world of ours. Mythic man, to be 
sure, demands a "going beyond all that" but scientific man cannot 
permit this. To the intellect, all my mythologizing is futile speculation. 
To the emotions, however, it is a healing and valid activity; it gives 
existence a glamour which we would not like to do without. Nor is 
there any good reason why we should. 



Parapsychology holds it to be a scientifically valid proof of an 
afterlife that the dead manifest themselves either as ghosts, or 
through a medium and communicate things which they alone could 
possibly know. But even though there do exist such well- 
documented cases, the question remains whether the ghost or the 
voice is identical with the dead person or is a psychic projection, 
and whether the things said really derive from the deceased or from 
knowledge which may be present in the unconscious. [1] 

Leaving aside the rational arguments against any certainty in these 
matters, we must not forget that for most people it means a great 
deal to assume that their lives will have an indefinite continuity 
beyond their present existence. They live more sensibly, feel better, 
and are more at peace. One has centuries, one has an 
inconceivable period of time at one's disposal. What then is the 
point of this senseless mad rush? 

Naturally, such reasoning does not apply to everyone. There are 
people who feel no craving for immortality, and who shudder at the 
thought of sitting on a cloud and playing the harp for ten thousand 
years! There are also quite a few who have been so buffeted by life, 
or who feel such disgust for their own existence, that they far prefer 
absolute cessation to continuance. But in the majority of cases the 
question of immortality is so urgent, so immediate, and also so 
ineradicable that we must make an effort to form some sort of view 
about it. But how? 

My hypothesis is that we can do so with the aid of hints sent to us 
from the unconscious in dreams, for example. Usually we dismiss 
these hints because we are convinced that the question is not 
susceptible to answer. In response to this understandable 
skepticism, I suggest the following considerations. If there is 
something we cannot know, we must necessarily abandon it as an 



intellectual problem. For example, I do not know for what reason the 
universe has come into being, and shall never know, 

1 Concerning "absolute knowledge" in the unconscious, cf. "Synchronicity: 
An Acausal Connecting Principle" in The Structure and Dynamics of the 
Psyche (CW8),pp.48i ff. 

Therefore I must drop this question as a scientific or intellectual 
problem. But if an idea about it is offered to me in dreams or in 
mythic traditions I ought to take note of it. I even ought to build up a 
conception on the basis of such hints, even though it will forever 
remain a hypothesis which I know cannot be proved. 

A man should be able to say he has done his best to form a 
conception of life after death, or to create some image of it-even if 
he must confess his failure. Not to have done so is a vital loss. For 
the question that is posed to him is the age-old heritage of 
humanity: an archetype, rich in secret life, which seeks to add itself 
to our own individual life in order to make it whole. Reason sets the 
boundaries far too narrowly for us, and would have us accept only 
the known and that too with limitations and live in a known 
framework, just as if we were sure how far life actually extends. As a 
matter of fact, day after day we live far beyond the bounds of our 
consciousness; without our knowledge, the life of the unconscious 
is also going on within us. The more the critical reason dominates, 
the more impoverished life becomes; but the more of the 
unconscious, and the more of myth we are capable of making 
conscious, the more of life we integrate. Overvalued reason has this 
in common with political absolutism: under its dominion the 
individual is pauperized. 

The unconscious helps by communicating things to us, or making 
figurative allusions. It has other ways, too, of informing us of things 
which by all logic we could not possibly know. Consider 



synchronistic phenomena, premonitions, and dreams that come 
true. I recall one time during the Second World War when I was 
returning home from Bollingen. I had a book with me, but could not 
read, for the moment the train started to move I was overpowered 
by the image of someone drowning. This was a memory of an 
accident that had happened while I was on military service. During 
the entire journey I could not rid myself of it. It struck me as uncanny, 
and I thought, "What has happened? Can there have been an 
accident?" 

I got out at Erlenbach and walked home, still troubled by this 
memory. My second daughters children were in the garden. The 
family was living with us, having returned to Switzerland from Paris 
because of the war. The children stood looking rather upset, and 
when I asked, "Why, what is the matter?" they told me that Adrian, 
then the youngest of the boys, had fallen into the water in the 
boathouse. It is quite deep there, and since he could not really swim 
he had almost drowned. His older brother had fished him out. This 
had taken place at exactly the time I had been assailed by that 
memory in the train. The unconscious had given me a hint. Why 
should it not be able to inform me of other things also? 

I had a somewhat similar experience before a death in my wife's 
family. I dreamed that my wife's bed was a deep pit with stone 
walls. It was a grave, and somehow had a suggestion of classical 
antiquity about it. Then I heard a deep sigh, as if someone were 
giving up the ghost. A figure that resembled my wife sat up in the pit 
and floated upward. It wore a white gown into which curious black 
symbols were woven. I awoke, roused my wife, and checked the 
time. It was three o'clock in the morning. The dream was so curious 
that I thought at once that it might signify a death. At seven o'clock 
came the news that a cousin of my wife had died at three o'clock in 
the morning. 



Frequently foreknowledge is there, but not recognition. Thus I once 
had a dream in which I was attending a garden party. I saw my 
sister there, and that greatly surprised me, for she had died some 
years before. A deceased friend of mine was also present. The rest 
were people who were still alive. Presently I saw that my sister was 
accompanied by a lady I knew well. Even in the dream I had drawn 
the conclusion that the lady was going to die. "She is already 
marked," I thought. In the dream I knew exactly who she was. I knew 
also that she lived in Basel. But as soon as I woke up I could no 
longer, with the best will in the world, recall who she was, although 
the whole dream was still vivid in my mind. I pictured all my 
acquaintances in Basel to see whether the memory images would 
ring a bell. Nothing! 

A few weeks later I received news that a friend of mine had had a 
fatal accident. I knew at once that she was the person I had seen in 
the dream but had been unable to identify. My recollection of her 
was perfectly clear and richly detailed, since she had been my 
patient for a considerable time up to a year before her death. In my 
attempt to recall the person in my dream, however, hers was the 
one picture which did not appear in my portrait gallery of Basel 
acquaintances, although by rights it should have been one of the 
first. 

When one has such experiences and I will tell of others like them 
one acquires a certain respect for the potentialities and arts of the 
unconscious. Only, one must remain critical and be aware that such 
communications may have a subjective meaning as well. They may 
be in accord with reality, and then again they may not. I have, 
however, learned that the views I have been able to form on the 
basis of such hints from the unconscious have been most 
rewarding. Naturally, I am not going to write a book of revelations 
about them, but I will acknowledge that I have a "myth" which 
encourages me to look deeper into this whole realm. Myths are the 



earliest form of science. When I speak of things after death, I am 
speaking out of inner prompting, and can go no farther than to tell 
you dreams and myths that relate to this subject. 

Naturally, one can contend from the start that myths and dreams 
concerning continuity of life after death are merely compensating 
fantasies which are inherent in our natures all life desires eternity. 
The only argument I can adduce in answer to this is the myth itself. 

However, there are indications that at least a part of the psyche is 
not subject to the laws of space and time. Scientific proof of that 
has been provided by the well-known J. B. Rhine experiments. [2] 
Along with numerous cases of spontaneous foreknowledge, non- 
spatial perceptions, and so on of which I have given a number of 
examples from my own life-these experiments prove that the 
psyche at times functions outside of the spatio-temporal law of 
causality. This indicates that our conceptions of space and time, 
and therefore of causality also, are incomplete. A complete picture 
of the world would require the addition of still another dimension; 
only then could the totality of phenomena be given a unified 
explanation. Hence it is that 

3 Extra-sensory Perception (Boston, 1934); The Reach of the Mind (New 
York, 1947). 

the rationalists insist to this day that parapsychological experiences 
do not really exist; for their world-view stands or falls by this 
question. If such phenomena occur at all, the rationalistic picture of 
the universe is invalid, because incomplete. Then the possibility of 
an other-valued reality behind the phenomenal world becomes an 
inescapable problem, and we must face the fact that our world, with 
its time, space, and causality, relates to another order of things 
lying behind or beneath it, in which neither "here and there" nor 
"earlier and later" are of importance. I have been convinced that at 



least a part of our psychic existence is characterized by a relativity 
of space and time. This relativity seems to increase, in proportion 
to the distance from consciousness, to an absolute condition of 
timelessness and spacelessness. 

Not only my own dreams, but also occasionally the dreams of 
others, helped to shape, revise, or confirm my views on a life after 
death. I attach particular importance to a dream which a pupil of 
mine, a woman of sixty, dreamed about two months before her 
death. She had entered the hereafter. There was a class going on, 
and various deceased women friends of hers sat on the front 
bench. An atmosphere of general expectation prevailed. She 
looked around for a teacher or lecturer, but could find none. Then it 
became plain that she herself was the lecturer, for immediately after 
death people had to give accounts of the total experience of their 
lives. The dead were extremely interested in the life experiences 
that the newly deceased brought with them, just as if the acts and 
experiences taking place in earthly life, in space and time, were the 
decisive ones. 

In any case, the dream describes a most unusual audience whose 
like could scarcely be found on earth: people burningly interested in 
the final psychological results of a human life that was in no way 
remarkable, any more than were the conclusions that could be 
drawn from it to our way of thinking. If, however, the "audience" 
existed in a state of relative non-time, where "termination" "event," 
and "development" had become questionable concepts, they might 
very well be most interested precisely in what was lacking in their 
own condition. 

At the time of this dream the lady was afraid of death and did her 
best to fend off any thoughts about it. Yet death is an important 
interest, especially to an aging person. A categorical question is 
being put to him, and he is under an obligation to answer it. To this 



end he ought to have a myth about death, for reason shows him 
nothing but the dark pit into which he is descending. Myth, however, 
can conjure up other images for him, helpful and enriching pictures 
of life in the land of the dead. If he believes in them, or greets them 
with some measure of credence, he is being just as right or just as 
wrong as someone who does not believe in them. But while the 
man who despairs marches toward nothingness, the one who has 
placed his faith in the archetype follows the tracks of life and lives 
right into his death. Both, to be sure, remain in uncertainty, but the 
one lives against his instincts, the other with them. 

The figures from the unconscious are uninformed too, and need 
man, or contact with consciousness, in order to attain to knowledge. 
When I began working with the unconscious, I found myself much 
involved with the figures of Salome and Elijah. Then they receded, 
but after about two years they reappeared. To my enormous 
astonishment, they were completely unchanged; they spoke and 
acted as if nothing had happened in the meanwhile. In actuality the 
most incredible things had taken place in my life. I had, as it were, 
to begin from the beginning again, to tell them all about what had 
been going on, and explain things to them. At the time I had been 
greatly surprised by this situation. Only later did I understand what 
had happened: in the interval the two had sunk back into the 
unconscious and into themselves I might equally well put it, into 
timelessness. They remained out of contact with the ego and the 
ego's changing circumstances, and therefore were ignorant of what 
had happened in the world of consciousness. 

Quite early I had learned that it was necessary for me to instruct the 
figures of the unconscious, or that other group which is often 
indistinguishable from them, the "spirits of the departed." The first 
time I experienced this was on a bicycle trip through upper Italy 
which I took with a friend in 1 91 1 . On the way home we cycled from 
Pavia to Arona, on the lower part of Lake Maggiore, and spent the 



night there. We had intended to pedal on along the lake and then 
through the Tessin as far as Faido, where we were going to take 
the train to Zurich. But in Arona I had a dream which upset our 
plans. 

In the dream I was in an assemblage of distinguished spirits of 
earlier centuries; the feeling was similar to the one I had later 
toward the "illustrious ancestors" in the black rock temple of my 
1944 vision. The conversation was conducted in Latin. A gentleman 
with a long, curly wig addressed me and asked a difficult question, 
the gist of which I could no longer recall after I woke up. I understood 
him, but did not have a sufficient command of the language to 
answer him in Latin. I felt so profoundly humiliated by this that the 
emotion awakened me. 

At the very moment of awakening I thought of the book I was then 
working on, Wandlungen und Symbole der Libido, and had such 
intense inferiority feelings about the unanswered question that I 
immediately took the train home in order to get back to work. It 
would have been impossible for me to continue the bicycle trip and 
lose another three days. I had to work, to find the answer. 

Not until years later did I understand the dream and my reaction. 
The bewigged gentleman was a kind of ancestral spirit, or spirit of 
the dead, who had addressed questions to me in vain! It was still 
too soon, I had not yet come so far, but I had an obscure feeling that 
by working on my book I would be answering the question that had 
been asked. It had been asked by, as it were, my spiritual 
forefathers, in the hope and expectation that they would learn what 
they had not been able to find out during their time on earth, since 
the answer had first to be created in the centuries that followed. If 
question and answer had already been in existence in eternity, had 
always been there, no effort on my part would have been necessary, 
and it could all have been discovered in any other century. There 



does seem to be unlimited knowledge present in nature, it is true, 
but it can be comprehended by consciousness only when the time 
is ripe for it. The process, presumably, is like what happens in the 
individual psyche: a man may go about for many years with an 
inkling of something, but grasps it clearly only at a particular 
moment. 

Later, when I wrote the Septem Sermones ad Mortuos, once again 
it was the dead who addressed crucial questions to me. They came 
so they said "back from Jerusalem, where they found not what they 
sought." This had surprised me greatly at the time, for according to 
the traditional views the dead are the possessors of great 
knowledge. People have the idea that the dead know far more than 
we, for Christian doctrine teaches that in the hereafter we shall "see 
face to face." Apparently, however, the souls of the dead "know" 
only what they knew at the moment of death, and nothing beyond 
that. Hence their endeavor to penetrate into life in order to share in 
the knowledge of men. I frequently have a feeling that they are 
standing directly behind us, waiting to hear what answer we will give 
to them, and what answer to destiny. It seems to me as if they were 
dependent on the living for receiving answers to their questions, 
that is, on those who have survived them and exist in a world of 
change: as if omniscience or, as I might put it, omni-consciousness, 
were not at their disposal, but could flow only into the psyche of the 
living, into a soul bound to a body. The mind of the living appears, 
therefore, to hold an advantage over that of the dead in at least one 
point: in the capacity for attaining clear and decisive cognitions. As 
I see it, the three-dimensional world in time and space is like a 
system of co-ordinates; what is here separated into ordinates and 
abscissae may appear "there," in space-timelessness, as a 
primordial image with many aspects, perhaps as a diffuse cloud of 
cognition surrounding an archetype. Yet a system of co-ordinates is 
necessary if any distinction of discrete contents is to be possible. 



Any such operation seems to us unthinkable in a state of diffuse 
omniscience, or, as the case may be, of subjectless 
consciousness, with no spatio-temporal demarcations. Cognition, 
like generation, presupposes an opposition, a here and there, an 
above and below, a before and after. 

If there were to be a conscious existence after death, it would, so it 
seems to me, have to continue on the level of consciousness 
attained by humanity, which in any age has an upper though 
variable limit. There are many human beings who throughout their 
lives and at the moment of death lag behind their own potentialities 
and even more important behind the knowledge which has been 
brought to consciousness by other human beings during their own 
lifetimes. Hence their demand to attain in death that share of 
awareness which they failed to win in life. 

I have come to this conclusion through observation of dreams about 
the dead. I dreamed once that I was paying a visit to a friend who 
had died about two weeks before. In life, this friend had never 
espoused anything but a conventional view of the world, and had 
remained stuck in this unreflecting attitude. In the dream his home 
was on a hill similar to the Tullinger hill near Basel. The walls of an 
old castle surrounded a square consisting of a small church and a 
few smaller buildings. It reminded me of the square in front of the 
castle of Rapperswil. It was autumn. The leaves of the ancient trees 
had turned gold, and the whole scene was transfigured by gentle 
sunlight. My friend sat at a table with his daughter, who had studied 
psychology in Zurich. I knew that she was telling him about 
psychology. He was so fascinated by what she was saying that he 
greeted me only with a casual wave of the hand, as though to 
intimate: "Don't disturb me." The greeting was at the same time a 
dismissal. The dream told me that now, in a manner which of 
course remains incomprehensible to me, he was required to grasp 
the reality of his psychic existence, which he had never been 



capable of doing during his life. 

I had another experience of the evolution of the soul after death 
when about a year after my wife's death I suddenly awoke one night 
and knew that I had been with her in the south of France, in 
Provence, and had spent an entire day with her. She was engaged 
on studies of the Grail there. That seemed significant to me, for she 
had died before completing her work on this subject. Interpretation 
on the subjective level that my anima had not yet finished with the 
work she had to do yielded nothing of interest; I know quite well that 
I am not yet finished with that. But the thought that my wife was 
continuing after death to work on her further spiritual development 
however that may be conceived struck me as meaningful and held a 
measure of reassurance for me. 

Ideas of this sort are, of course, inaccurate, and give a wrong 
picture, like a body projected on a plane or, conversely, like the 
construction of a four-dimensional model out of a three-dimensional 
body. They use the terms of a three-dimensional world in order to 
represent themselves to us. Mathematics goes to great pains to 
create expressions for relationships which pass empirical 
comprehension. In much the same way, it is all-important for a 
disciplined imagination to build up images of intangibles by logical 
principles and on the basis of empirical data, that is, on the 
evidence of dreams. The method employed is what I have called 
"the method of the necessary statement." It represents the principle 
of amplification in the interpretation of dreams, but can most easily 
be demonstrated by the statements implicit in simple whole 
numbers. 

One, as the first numeral, is unity. But it is also "the unity," the One, 
All-Oneness, individuality and non-duality not a numeral but a 
philosophical concept, an archetype and attribute of God, the 
monad. It is quite proper that the human intellect should make these 



statements; but at the same time the intellect is determined and 
limited by its conception of oneness and its implications. In other 
words, these statements are not arbitrary. They are governed by the 
nature of oneness and therefore are necessary statements. 
Theoretically, the same logical operation could be performed for 
each of the following conceptions of number, but in practice the 
process soon comes to an end because of the rapid increase in 
complications, which become too numerous to handle. 

Every further unit introduces new properties and new modifications. 
Thus, it is a property of the number four that equations of the fourth 
degree can be solved, whereas equations of the fifth degree 
cannot. The necessary statement of the number four, therefore, is 
that, among other things, it is an apex and simultaneously the end of 
a preceding ascent. Since with each additional unit one or more 
new mathematical properties appear, the statements attain such a 
complexity that they can no longer be formulated. 

The infinite series of natural numbers corresponds to the infinite 
number of individual creatures. That series likewise consists of 
individuals, and the properties even of its first ten members 
represent if they represent anything at all an abstract cosmogony 
derived from the monad. The properties of numbers are, however, 
simultaneously properties of matter, for which reason certain 
equations can anticipate its behavior. 

Therefore I submit that other than mathematical statements (i.e., 
statements implicit in nature) are likewise capable of pointing to 
irrepresentable realities beyond themselves such, for example, as 
those products of the imagination which enjoy universal acceptance 
or are distinguished by the frequency of their occurrence, like the 
whole class of archetypal motifs. Just as in the case of some 
factors in mathematical equations we cannot say to what physical 
realities they correspond, so in the case of some mythological 



products we do not know at first to what psychic realities they refer. 
Equations governing the turbulence of heated gases existed long 
before the problems of such gases had been precisely 
investigated. Similarly, we have long been in possession of 
mythologems which express the dynamics of certain subliminal 
processes, though these processes were only given names in very 
recent times. 

The maximum awareness which has been attained anywhere 
forms, so it seems to me, the upper limit of knowledge to which the 
dead can attain. That is probably why earthly life is of such great 
significance, and why it is that what a human being "brings over" at 
the time of his death is so important. Only here, in life on earth, 
where the opposites clash together, can the general level of 
consciousness be raised. That seems to be man's metaphysical 
task which he cannot accomplish without "mythologizing." Myth is 
the natural and indispensable intermediate stage between 
unconscious and conscious cognition. True, the unconscious knows 
more than consciousness does; but it is knowledge of a special 
sort, knowledge in eternity, usually without reference to the here and 
now, not couched in language of the intellect. Only when we let its 
statements amplify themselves, as has been shown above by the 
example of numerals, does it come within the range of our 
understanding; only then does a new aspect become perceptible to 
us. This process is convincingly repeated in every successful 
dream analysis. That is why it is so important not to have any 
preconceived, doctrinaire opinions about the statements made by 
dreams. As soon as a certain "monotony of interpretation" strikes 
us, we know that our approach has become doctrinaire and hence 
sterile. 

Although there is no way to marshal valid proof of continuance of 
the soul after death, there are nevertheless experiences which 
make us thoughtful. I take them as hints, and do not presume to 



ascribe to them the significance of insights. 

One night I lay awake thinking of the sudden death of a friend 
whose funeral had taken place the day before. I was deeply 
concerned. Suddenly I felt that he was in the room. It seemed to me 
that he stood at the foot of my bed and was asking me to go with 
him. I did not have the feeling of an apparition; rather, it was an 
inner visual image of him, which I explained to myself as a fantasy. 
But in all honesty I had to ask myself, "Do I have any proof that this 
is a fantasy? Suppose it is not a fantasy, suppose my friend is really 
here and I decided he was only a fantasy would that not be 
abominable of me?" Yet I had equally little proof that he stood 
before me as an apparition. Then I said to myself, "Proof is neither 
here nor there! Instead of explaining him away as a fantasy, I might 
just as well give him the benefit of the doubt and for experiment's 
sake credit him with reality." The moment I had that thought, he went 
to the door and beckoned me to follow him. So I was going to have 
to play along with him! That was something I hadn't bargained for. I 
had to repeat my argument to myself once more. Only then did I 
follow him in my imagination. 

He led me out of the house, into the garden, out to the road, and 
finally to his house, (In reality it was several hundred yards away 
from mine.) I went in, and he conducted me into his study. He 
climbed on a stool and showed me the second of five books with 
red bindings which stood on the second shelf from the top. Then the 
vision broke off. I was not acquainted with his library and did not 
know what books he owned. Certainly I could never have made out 
from below the titles of the books he had pointed out to me on the 
second shelf from the top. 

This experience seemed to me so curious that next morning I went 
to his widow and asked whether I could look up something in my 
friend's library. Sure enough, there was a stool standing under the 



bookcase I had seen in my vision, and even before I came closer I 
could see the five books with red bindings. I stepped up on the stool 
so as to be able to read the titles. They were translations of the 
novels of Emile Zola. The title of the second volume read: "The 
Legacy of the Dead." The contents seemed to me of no interest. 
Only the title was extremely significant in connection with this 
experience. 

Equally important to me were the dream-experiences I had before 
my mother's death. News of her death came to me while I was 
staying in the Tessin. I was deeply shaken, for it had come with 
unexpected suddenness. The night before her death I had a 
frightening dream. I was in a dense, gloomy forest; fantastic, 
gigantic boulders lay about among huge jungle-like trees. It was a 
heroic, primeval landscape. Suddenly I heard a piercing whistle that 
seemed to resound through the whole universe. My knees shook. 
Then there were crashings in the underbrush, and a gigantic 
wolfhound with a fearful, gaping maw burst forth. At the sight of it, 
the blood froze in my veins. It tore past me, and I suddenly knew: the 
Wild Huntsman had commanded it to carry away a human soul. I 
awoke in deadly terror, and the next morning I received the news of 
my mother's passing. 

Seldom has a dream so shaken me, for upon superficial 
consideration it seemed to say that the devil had fetched her. But to 
be accurate the dream said that it was the Wild Huntsman, the 
"Grunhutl" or Wearer of the Green Hat, who hunted with his wolves 
that night it was the season of Fohn storms in January. It was 
Wotan, the god of my Alemannic forefathers, who had gathered my 
mother to her ancestors negatively to the "wild horde," but positively 
to the "salig lut" the blessed folk. It was the Christian missionaries 
who made Wotan into a devil. In himself he is an important god-a 
Mercury or Hermes, as the Romans correctly realized, a nature 
spirit who returned to life again in the Merlin of the Grail legend and 



became, as the spiritus Mercurialis, the sought-after arcanum of the 
alchemists. Thus the dream says that the soul of my mother was 
taken into that greater territory of the self which lies beyond the 
segment of Christian morality, taken into that wholeness of nature 
and spirit in which conflicts and contradictions are resolved. 

I went home immediately, and while I rode in the night train I had a 
feeling of great grief, but in my heart of hearts 1 could not be 
mournful, and this for a strange reason: during the entire journey I 
continually heard dance music, laughter, and jollity, as though a 
wedding were being celebrated. This contrasted violently with the 
devastating impression the dream had made on me. Here was gay 
dance music, cheerful laughter, and it was impossible to yield 
entirely to my sorrow. Again and again it was on the point of 
overwhelming me, but the next moment I would find myself once 
more engulfed by the merry melodies. One side of me had a feeling 
of warmth and joy, and the other of terror and grief; I was thrown 
back and forth between these contrasting emotions. 

This paradox can be explained if we suppose that at one moment 
death was being represented from the point of view of the ego, and 
at the next from that of the psyche. In the first case it appeared as a 
catastrophe; that is how it so often strikes us, as if wicked and 
pitiless powers had put an end to a human life. 

And so it is death is indeed a fearful piece of brutality; there is no 
sense pretending otherwise. It is brutal not only as a physical event, 
but far more so psychically: a human being is torn away from us, 
and what remains is the icy stillness of death. There no longer 
exists any hope of a relationship, for all the bridges have been 
smashed at one blow. Those who deserve a long life are cut off in 
the prime of their years, and good-for-nothings live to a ripe old 
age. This is a cruel reality which we have no right to sidestep. The 
actual experience of the cruelty and wantonness of death can so 



embitter us that we conclude there is no merciful God, no justice, 
and no kindness. 

From another point of view, however, death appears as a joyful 
event. In the light of eternity, it is a wedding, a mysterium 
coniunctionis. The soul attains, as it were, its missing half, it 
achieves wholeness. On Greek sarcophagi the joyous element was 
represented by dancing girls, on Etruscan tombs by banquets. 
When the pious Cabbalist Rabbi Simon ben Jochai came to die, 
his friends said that he was celebrating his wedding. To this day it 
is the custom in many regions to hold a picnic on the graves on All 
Souls' Day. Such customs express the feeling that death is really a 
festive occasion. 

Several months before my mother's death, in September 1922, I 
had a dream which presaged it. It concerned my father, and made a 
deep impression upon me. I had not dreamed of my father since his 
death in 1896. Now he once more appeared in a dream, as if he 
had returned from a distant journey. He looked rejuvenated, and 
had shed his appearance of paternal authoritarianism. I went into 
my library with him, and was greatly pleased at the prospect of 
finding out what he had been up to. I was also looking forward with 
particular joy to introducing my wife and children to him, to showing 
him my house, and to telling him all that had happened to me and 
what I had become in the meanwhile. I wanted also to tell him about 
my book on psychological types, which had recently been 
published. But I quickly saw that all this would be inopportune, for 
my father looked preoccupied. Apparently he wanted something 
from me. I felt that plainly, and so I refrained from talking about my 
own concerns. 

He then said to me that since I was after all a psychologist, he 
would like to consult me about marital psychology. I made ready to 
give him a lengthy lecture on the complexities of marriage, but at 



this point I awoke. I could not properly understand the dream, for it 
never occurred to me that it might refer to my mother's death. I 
realized that only when she died suddenly in January 1923. 

My parents' marriage was not a happy one, but full of trials and 
difficulties and tests of patience. Both made the mistakes typical of 
many couples. My dream was a forecast of my mother's death, for 
here was my father who, after an absence of twenty-six years, 
wished to ask a psychologist about the newest insights and 
information on marital problems, since he would soon have to 
resume this relationship again. Evidently he had acquired no better 
understanding in his timeless state and therefore had to appeal to 
someone among the living who, enjoying the benefits of changed 
times, might have a fresh approach to the whole thing. 

Such was the dream's message. Undoubtedly, I could have found 
out a good deal more by looking into its subjective meaning but why 
did I dream it just before the death of my mother, which I did not 
foresee? It plainly referred to my father, with whom I felt a sympathy 
that deepened as I grew older. 

Since the unconscious, as the result of its spatio-temporal relativity, 
possesses better sources of information than the conscious mind 
which has only sense perceptions available to it we are dependent 
for our myth of life after death upon the meager hints of dreams and 
similar spontaneous revelations from the unconscious. As I have 
already said, we cannot attribute to these allusions the value of 
knowledge, let alone proof. They can, however, serve as suitable 
bases for mythic amplifications; they give the probing intellect the 
raw material which is indispensable for its vitality. Cut off the 
intermediary world of mythic imagination, and the mind falls prey to 
doctrinaire rigidities. On the other hand, too much traffic with these 
germs of myth is dangerous for weak and suggestible minds, for 
they are led to mistake vague intimations for substantial knowledge, 



and to hypostatize mere phantasms. 

One widespread myth of the hereafter is formed by the ideas and 
images centering on reincarnation. In one country whose intellectual 
culture is highly complex and much older than ours I am, of course, 
referring to India the idea of reincarnation is as much taken for 
granted as, among us, the idea that God created the world, or that 
there is a spiritus rector. Cultivated Hindus know that we do not 
share their ideas about this, but that does not trouble them. In 
keeping with the spirit of the East, the succession of birth and death 
is viewed as an endless continuity, as an eternal wheel rolling on 
forever without a goal, Man lives and attains knowledge and dies 
and begins again from the beginning. Only with the Buddha does 
the idea of a goal emerge, namely, the overcoming of earthly 
existence. 

The mythic needs of the Occidental call for an evolutionary 
cosmogony with a beginning and a goal. The Occidental rebels 
against a cosmogony with a beginning and mere end, just as he 
cannot accept the idea of a static, self-contained, eternal cycle of 
events. The Oriental, on the other hand, seems able to come to 
terms with this idea. Apparently there is no unanimous feeling about 
the nature of the world, any more than there is general agreement 
among contemporary astronomers on this question. To Western 
man, the meaninglessness of a merely static universe is 
unbearable. He must assume that it has meaning. The Oriental 
does not need to make this assumption; rather, he himself 
embodies it. Whereas the Occidental feels the need to complete 
the meaning of the world, the Oriental strives for the fulfillment of 
meaning in man, stripping the world and existence from himself 
(Buddha). 

I would say that both are right. Western man seems predominantly 
extraverted, Eastern man predominantly introverted. The former 



projects the meaning and considers that it exists in objects; the 
latter feels the meaning in himself. But the meaning is both without 
and within. 

The idea of rebirth is inseparable from that of karma. The crucial 
question is whether a man's karma is personal or not. If it is, then 
the preordained destiny with which a man enters life represents an 
achievement of previous lives, and a personal continuity therefore 
exists. If, however, this is not so, and an impersonal karma is 
seized upon in the act of birth, then that karma is incarnated again 
without there being any personal continuity. 

Buddha was twice asked by his disciples whether man's karma is 
personal or not. Each time he fended off the question, and did not 
go into the matter; to know this, he said, would not contribute to 
liberating oneself from the illusion of existence. Buddha considered 
it far more useful for his disciples to meditate upon the Nidana 
chain, that is, upon birth, life, old age, and death, and upon the 
cause and effect of suffering. 

I know no answer to the question of whether the karma which I live is 
the outcome of my past lives, or whether it is not rather the 
achievement of my ancestors, whose heritage comes together in 
me. Am I a combination of the lives of these ancestors and do I 
embody these lives again? Have I lived before in the past as a 
specific personality, and did I progress so far in that life that I am 
now able to seek a solution? I do not know. Buddha left the question 
open, and I like to assume that he himself did not know with 
certainty. 

I could well imagine that I might have lived in former centuries and 
there encountered questions I was not yet able to answer; that I had 
to be born again because I had not fulfilled the task that was given 
to me. When I die, my deeds will follow along with me that is how I 



imagine it. I will bring with me what I have done. In the meantime it is 
important to insure that I do not stand at the end with empty hands. 
Buddha, too, seems to have had this thought when he tried to keep 
his disciples from wasting time on useless speculation. 

The meaning of my existence is that life has addressed a question 
to me. Or, conversely, I myself am a question which is addressed to 
the world, and I must communicate my answer, for otherwise I am 
dependent upon the world's answer. That is a suprapersonal life 
task, which I accomplish only by effort and with difficulty. Perhaps it 
is a question which preoccupied my ancestors, and which they 
could not answer. Could that be why I am so impressed by the fact 
that the conclusion of Faust contains no solution? Or by the problem 
on which Nietzsche foundered: the Dionysian side of life, to which 
the Christian seems to have lost the way? Or is it the restless 
Wotan-Hermes of my Alemannic and Prankish ancestors who 
poses challenging riddles? 

What I feel to be the resultant of my ancestors' lives, or a karma 
acquired in a previous personal life, might perhaps equally well be 
an impersonal archetype which today presses hard on everyone 
and has taken a particular hold upon me an archetype such as, for 
example, the development over the centuries of the divine triad and 
its confrontation with the feminine principle; or the still pending 
answer to the Gnostic question as to the origin of evil, or, to put it 
another way, the incompleteness of the Christian God-image. 

I also think of the possibility that through the achievement of an 
individual a question enters the world, to which he must provide 
some kind of answer. For example, my way of posing the question 
as well as my answer may be unsatisfactory. That being so, 
someone who has my karma or I myself would have to be reborn in 
order to give a more complete answer. It might happen that I would 
not be reborn again so long as the world needed no such answer, 



and that I would be entitled to several hundred years of peace until 
someone was once more needed who took an interest in these 
matters and could profitably tackle the task anew. I imagine that for 
a while a period of rest could ensue, until the stint I had done in my 
lifetime needed to be taken up again. 

The question of karma is obscure to me, as is also the problem of 
personal rebirth or of the transmigration of souls. "With a free and 
open mind" I listen attentively to the Indian doctrine of rebirth, and 
look around in the world of my own experience to see whether 
somewhere and somehow there is some authentic sign pointing 
toward reincarnation. Naturally, I do not count the relatively 
numerous testimonies, here in the West, to the belief in 
reincarnation. A belief proves to me only the phenomenon of belief, 
not the content of the belief. This I must see revealed empirically in 
order to accept it. Until a few years ago I could not discover 
anything convincing in this respect, although I kept a sharp lookout 
for any such signs. Recently, however, I observed in myself a series 
of dreams which would seem to describe the process of 
reincarnation in a deceased person of my acquaintance. But I have 
never come across any such dreams in other persons, and 
therefore have no basis for comparison. Since this observation is 
subjective and unique, I prefer only to mention its existence and not 
to go into it any further. I must confess, however, that after this 
experience I view the problem of reincarnation with somewhat 
different eyes, though without being in a position to assert a definite 
opinion. 

If we assume that life continues "there," we cannot conceive of any 
other form of existence except a psychic one; for the life of the 
psyche requires no space and no time. Psychic existence, and 
above all the inner images with which we are here concerned, 
supply the material for all mythic speculations about a life in the 
hereafter, and I imagine that life as a continuance in the world of 



images. Thus the psyche might be that existence in which the 
hereafter or the land of the dead is located. 

From the psychological point of view, life in the hereafter would 
seem to be a logical continuation of the psychic life of old age. With 
increasing age, contemplation, and reflection, the inner images 
naturally play an ever greater part in man's life. "Your old men shall 
dream dreams". [3] That, to be sure, presupposes that the psyches 
of the old men have not become wooden, or entirely petrified sera 
medicina paratur cum mala per longas convaluere moras. [4] In old 
age one begins to let memories unroll before the mind's eye and, 
musing, to recognize oneself in the inner and outer images of the 
past. This is like a preparation for an existence in the hereafter, just 
as, in Plato's view, philosophy is a preparation for death. 

The inner images keep me from getting lost in personal 
retrospection. Many old people become too involved in their 
reconstruction of past events. They remain imprisoned in these 
memories. But if it is reflective and is translated into images, 
retrospection can be a reculer pour mieux sauter. I try to see the line 
which leads through my life into the world, and out of the world 
again. 

In general, the conception people form of the hereafter is largely 
made up of wishful thinking and prejudices. Thus in most 
conceptions the hereafter is pictured as a pleasant place. That 
does not seem so obvious to me. I hardly think that after death we 
shall be spirited to some lovely flowering meadow. If everything 
were pleasant and good in the hereafter, surely there would be 
some friendly communication between us and the blessed spirits, 
and an outpouring upon us of goodness and beauty from the 
prenatal state. But there is nothing of the sort. Why is there this 
insurmountable barrier between the departed and the living? At 
least half the reports of encounters with the dead tell of terrifying 



experiences with dark spirits; and it is the rule that the land of the 
dead observes icy silence, unperturbed by the grief of the 
bereaved. 

3 Acts 2:17; Joel 2:28. 

4 The medicine is prepared too late, when the illness has grown strong by 
long delay. 

To follow out the thought that involuntarily comes to me: the world, I 
feel, is far too unitary for there to be a hereafter in which the rule of 
opposites is completely absent. There, too, is nature, which after its 
fashion is also God's. The world into which we enter after death will 
be grand and terrible, like God and like all of nature that we know. 
Nor can I conceive that suffering should entirely cease. Granted that 
what I experienced in my 1944 visions liberation from the burden of 
the body, and perception of meaning gave me the deepest bliss. 
Nevertheless, there was darkness too, and a strange cessation of 
human warmth. Remember the black rock to which I came! It was 
dark and of the hardest granite. What does that mean? If there were 
no imperfections, no primordial defect in the ground of creation, 
why should there be any urge to create, any longing for what must 
yet be fulfilled? Why should the gods be the least bit concerned 
about man and creation? About the continuation of the Nidana 
chain to infinity? After all, the Buddha opposes to the painful illusion 
of existence his quod non, and the Christian hopes for the swift 
coming of this world's end. 

It seems probable to me that in the hereafter, too, there exist certain 
limitations, but that the souls of the dead only gradually find out 
where the limits of the liberated state lie. Somewhere "out there" 
there must be a determinant, a necessity conditioning the world, 
which seeks to put an end to the after-death state. This creative 
determinant so I imagine it must decide what souls will plunge 
again into birth. Certain souls, I imagine, feel the state of three- 



dimensional existence to be more blissful than that of Eternity. But 
perhaps that depends upon how much of completeness or 
incompleteness they have taken across with them from their human 
existence. 

It is possible that any further spell of three-dimensional life would 
have no more meaning once the soul had reached a certain stage 
of understanding; it would then no longer have to return, fuller 
understanding having put to rout the desire for re-embodiment. 
Then the soul would vanish from the three-dimensional world and 
attain what the Buddhists call nirvana. But if a karma still remains to 
be disposed of, then the soul relapses again into desires and 
returns to life once more, perhaps even doing so out of the 
realization that something remains to be completed. 

In my case it must have been primarily a passionate urge toward 
understanding which brought about my birth. For that is the 
strongest element in my nature. This insatiable drive toward 
understanding has, as it were, created a consciousness in order to 
know what is and what happens, and in order to piece together 
mythic conceptions from the slender hints of the unknowable. 

We lack concrete proof that anything of us is preserved for eternity. 
At most we can say that there is some probability that something of 
our psyche continues beyond physical death. Whether what 
continues to exist is conscious of itself, we do not know either. If we 
feel the need to form some opinion on this question, we might 
possibly consider what has been learned from the phenomena of 
psychic dissociation. In most cases where a split-off complex 
manifests itself it does so in the form of a personality, as if the 
complex had a consciousness of itself. Thus the voices heard by 
the insane are personified. 1 dealt long ago with this phenomenon of 
personified complexes in my doctoral dissertation. We might, if we 
wish, adduce these complexes as evidence for a continuity of 



consciousness. Likewise in favor of such an assumption are certain 
astonishing observations in cases of profound syncope after acute 
injuries to the brain and in severe states of collapse. In both 
situations, total loss of consciousness can be accompanied by 
perceptions of the outside world and vivid dream experiences. 
Since the cerebral cortex, the seat of consciousness, is not 
functioning at these times, there is as yet no explanation for such 
phenomena. They may be evidence for at least a subjective 
persistence of the capacity for consciousness even in a state of 
apparent unconsciousness. [5] The thorny problem of the 
relationship between eternal man, the self and earthly man in time 
and space was illuminated by two dreams of mine. 

5 Cf . "Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle," in The Structure 
and Dynamics of the Psyche ( CW 8 ) , pp. 506 ff. 

In one dream, which I had in October 1958, I caught sight from my 
house of two lens-shaped metallically gleaming disks, which hurtled 
in a narrow arc over the house and down to the lake. They were two 
UFOs (Unidentified Flying Objects). Then another body came flying 
directly toward me. It was a perfectly circular lens, like the objective 
of a telescope. At a distance of four or five hundred yards it stood 
still for a moment, and then flew off. Immediately afterward, another 
came speeding through the air: a lens with a metallic extension 
which led to a box a magic lantern. At a distance of sixty or seventy 
yards it stood still in the air, pointing straight at me. I awoke with a 
feeling of astonishment. Still half in the dream, the thought passed 
through my head: "We always think that the UFOs are projections of 
ours. Now it turns out that we are their projections. I am projected by 
the magic lantern as C. G. Jung. But who manipulates the 
apparatus?" 

I had dreamed once before of the problem of the self and the ego. 
In that earlier dream I was on a hiking trip. I was walking along a 



little road through a hilly landscape; the sun was shining and I had a 
wide view in all directions. Then I came to a small wayside chapel. 
The door was ajar, and I went in. To my surprise there was no 
image of the Virgin on the altar, and no crucifix either, but only a 
wonderful flower arrangement. But then I saw that on the floor in 
front of the altar, facing me, sat a yogi in lotus posture, in deep 
meditation. When I looked at him more closely, I realized that he 
had my face. I started in profound fright, and awoke with the thought: 
"Aha, so he is the one who is meditating me. He has a dream, and I 
am it." I knew that when he awakened, I would no longer be. 

I had this dream after my illness in 1944. It is a parable: My self 
retires into meditation and meditates my earthly form. To put it 
another way: it assumes human shape in order to enter three- 
dimensional existence, as if someone were putting on a diver's suit 
in order to dive into the sea. When it renounces existence in the 
hereafter, the self assumes a religious posture, as the chapel in the 
dream shows. In earthly form it can pass through the experiences of 
the three-dimensional world, and by greater awareness take a 
further step toward realization. 

The figure of the yogi, then, would more or less represent my 
unconscious prenatal wholeness, and the Far East, as is often the 
case in dreams, a psychic state alien and opposed to our own. Like 
the magic lantern, the yogi's meditation "projects" my empirical 
reality. As a rule, we see this causal relationship in reverse: in the 
products of the unconscious we discover mandala symbols, that is, 
circular and quaternary figures which express wholeness, and 
whenever we wish to express wholeness, we employ just such 
figures. Our basis is ego-consciousness, our world the field of light 
centered upon the focal point of the ego. From that point we look 
out upon an enigmatic world of obscurity, never knowing to what 
extent the shadowy forms we see are caused by our 
consciousness, or possess a reality of their own. The superficial 



observer is content with the first assumption. But closer study 
shows that as a rule the images of the unconscious are not 
produced by consciousness, but have a reality and spontaneity of 
their own, Nevertheless, we regard them as mere marginal 
phenomena. 

The aim of both these dreams is to effect a reversal of the 
relationship between ego-consciousness and the unconscious, and 
to represent the unconscious as the generator of the empirical 
personality. This reversal suggests that in the opinion of the "other 
side," our unconscious existence is the real one and our conscious 
world a kind of illusion, an apparent reality constructed for a specific 
purpose, like a dream which seems a reality as long as we are in it. 
It is clear that this state of affairs resembles very closely the Oriental 
conception of Maya. [6] 

Unconscious wholeness therefore seems to me the true spiritus 
rector of all biological and psychic events. Here is a principle which 
strives for total realization which in man's case signifies the 
attainment of total consciousness. Attainment of consciousness is 
culture in the broadest sense, and self-knowledge is therefore the 
heart and essence of this process. The Oriental attributes 
unquestionably divine significance to the self, and according to the 
ancient Christian view self-knowledge is the road to knowledge of 
God. 

6Atendency to question the locus of reality manifested itself early in Jung's 
life, when as a child he sat upon the stone and toyed with the idea that the 
stone was saying, or was, "I." Cf. the well-known butterfly dream in 
Chuangtzu. A. J. 

The decisive question for man is: Is he related to something infinite 
or not? That is the telling question of his life. Only if we know that the 
thing which truly matters is the infinite can we avoid fixing our 



interest upon futilities, and upon all kinds of goals which are not of 
real importance. Thus we demand that the world grant us 
recognition for qualities which we regard as personal possessions: 
our talent or our beauty. The more a man lays stress on false 
possessions, and the less sensitivity he has for what is essential, 
the less satisfying is his life. He feels limited because he has 
limited aims, and the result is envy and jealousy. If we understand 
and feel that here in this life we already have a link with the infinite, 
desires and attitudes change. In the final analysis, we count for 
something only because of the essential we embody, and if we do 
not embody that, life is wasted. In our relationships to other men, 
too, the crucial question is whether an element of boundlessness is 
expressed in the relationship. 

The feeling for the infinite, however, can be attained only if we are 
bounded to the utmost. The greatest limitation for man is the "self; 
it is manifested in the experience: "I am only that!" Only 
consciousness of our narrow confinement in the self forms the link 
to the limitlessness of the unconscious. In such awareness we 
experience ourselves concurrently as limited and eternal, as both 
the one and the other. In knowing ourselves to be unique in our 
personal combination that is, ultimately limited we possess also the 
capacity for becoming conscious of the infinite. But only then! 

In an era which has concentrated exclusively upon extension of 
living space and increase of rational knowledge at all costs, it is a 
supreme challenge to ask man to become conscious of his 
uniqueness and his limitation. Uniqueness and limitation are 
synonymous. Without them, no perception of the unlimited is 
possible-and, consequently, no coming to consciousness either- 
merely a delusory identity with it which takes the form of intoxication 
with large numbers and an avidity for political power. 

Our age has shifted all emphasis to the here and now, and thus 



brought about a daemonization of man and his world. The 
phenomenon of dictators and all the misery they have wrought 
springs from the fact that man has been robbed of transcendence 
by the shortsightedness of the super-intellectuals. Like them, he has 
fallen a victim to unconsciousness. But man's task is the exact 
opposite: to become conscious of the contents that press upward 
from the unconscious. Neither should he persist in his 
unconsciousness, nor remain identical with the unconscious 
elements of his being, thus evading his destiny, which is to create 
more and more consciousness. As far as we can discern, the sole 
purpose of human existence is to kindle a light in the darkness of 
mere being. It may even be assumed that just as the unconscious 
affects us, so the increase in our consciousness affects the 
unconscious. 



XII 



Late Thoughts 



ANY BIOGRAPHY of myself , must, I think, take account of the 
following reflections. It is true that they may well strike others as 
highly theoretical, but making "theory" [1] of this sort is as much a 
part of me, as vital a function of mine, as eating and drinking. 

What is remarkable about Christianity is that in its system of dogma 
it anticipates a metamorphosis in the divinity, a process of historic 
change on the "other side." It does this in the form of the new myth 
of dissension in heaven, first alluded to in the creation myth in which 
a serpent-like antagonist of the Creator appears, and lures man to 
disobedience by the promise of increased conscious knowledge 
(scientes bonum et malum), The second allusion is to the fall of the 
angels, a premature invasion of the human world by unconscious 
contents. The angels are a strange genus: they are precisely what 
they are and cannot be anything else. They are in themselves 
soulless beings who 

1 In the original sense of the Greek theorein, 'looking about the world," or 
the German Weltanschauung. A. J. 

represent nothing but the thoughts and intuitions of their Lord. 
Angels who fall, then, are exclusively "bad" angels. These release 
the well-known effect of "inflation" which we can also observe 
nowadays in the megalomania of dictators: the angels beget with 
men a race of giants which ends by threatening to devour mankind, 
as is told in the book of Enoch. 

The third and decisive stage of the myth, however, is the self- 
realization of God in human form, in fulfillment of the Old Testament 



idea of the divine marriage and its consequences. As early as the 
period of primitive Christianity, the idea of the incarnation had been 
refined to include the intuition of "Christ within us." Thus the 
unconscious wholeness penetrated into the psychic realm of inner 
experience, and man was made aware of all that entered into his 
true configuration. This was a decisive step, not only for man, but 
also for the Creator Who, in the eyes of those who had been 
delivered from darkness, cast off His dark qualities and became 
the summum bonum. 

This myth remained unassailably vital for a millennium until the first 
signs of a further transformation of consciousness began appearing 
in the eleventh century. [2] From then on, the symptoms of unrest 
and doubt increased, until at the end of the second millennium the 
outlines of a universal catastrophe became apparent, at first in the 
form of a threat to consciousness. This threat consists in giantism in 
other words, a hubris of consciousness in the assertion: "Nothing is 
greater than man and his deeds." The otherworldliness, the 
transcendence of the Christian myth was lost, and with it the view 
that wholeness is achieved in the other world. 

Light is followed by shadow, the other side of the Creator. This 
development reached its peak in the twentieth century. The 
Christian world is now truly confronted by the principle of evil, by 
naked injustice, tyranny, lies, slavery, and coercion of conscience. 
This manifestation of naked evil has assumed apparently 
permanent form in the Russian nation; but its first violent eruption 
came in Germany. That outpouring of evil revealed to what extent 
Christianity has been undermined in 

2 See Aion ( CW 9, u), pp. 8a ff. 

the twentieth century. In the face of that, evil can no longer be 
minimized by the euphemism of the privatio boni. Evil has become 



a determinant reality. It can no longer be dismissed from the world 
by a circumlocution. We must learn how to handle it, since it is here 
to stay. How we can live with it without terrible consequences 
cannot for the present be conceived. 

In any case, we stand in need of a reorientation, a metanoia. 
Touching evil brings with it the grave peril of succumbing to it. We 
must, therefore, no longer succumb to anything at all, not even to 
good. A so-called good to which we succumb loses its ethical 
character. Not that there is anything bad in it on that score, but to 
have succumbed to it may breed trouble. Every form of addiction is 
bad, no matter whether the narcotic be alcohol or morphine or 
idealism. We must beware of thinking of good and evil as absolute 
opposites. The criterion of ethical action can no longer consist in 
the simple view that good has the force of a categorical imperative, 
while so-called evil can resolutely be shunned. Recognition of the 
reality of evil necessarily relativizes the good, and the evil likewise, 
converting both into halves of a paradoxical whole. 

In practical terms, this means that good and evil are no longer so 
self-evident. We have to realize that each represents a judgment. In 
view of the fallibility of all human judgment, we cannot believe that 
we will always judge rightly. We might so easily be the victims of 
misjudgment. The ethical problem is affected by this principle only 
to the extent that we become somewhat uncertain about moral 
evaluations. Nevertheless we have to make ethical decisions. The 
relativity of "good" and "evil" by no means signifies that these 
categories are invalid, or do not exist. Moral judgment is always 
present and carries with it characteristic psychological 
consequences. I have pointed out many times that as in the past, so 
in the future the wrong we have done, thought, or intended will 
wreak its vengeance on our souls. Only the contents of judgment 
are subject to the differing conditions of time and place and, 
therefore, take correspondingly different forms. For moral 



evaluation is always founded upon the apparent certitudes of a 
moral code which pretends to know precisely what is good and 
what evil. But once we know how uncertain the foundation is, ethical 
decision becomes a subjective, creative act. We can convince 
ourselves of its validity only Deo concedente that is, there must be a 
spontaneous and decisive impulse on the part of the unconscious. 
Ethics itself, the decision between good and evil, is not affected by 
this impulse, only made more difficult for us. Nothing can spare us 
the torment of ethical decision. Nevertheless, harsh as it may 
sound, we must have the freedom in some circumstances to avoid 
the known moral good and do what is considered to be evil, if our 
ethical decision so requires. In other words, again: we must not 
succumb to either of the opposites. A useful pattern is provided by 
the neti-neti of Indian philosophy. In given cases, the moral code is 
undeniably abrogated and ethical choice is left to the individual. In 
itself there is nothing new about this idea; in pre-psychology days 
such difficult choices were also known and came under the heading 
of "conflict of duties" 

As a rule, however, the individual is so unconscious that he 
altogether fails to see his own potentialities for decision. Instead he 
is constantly and anxiously looking around for external rules and 
regulations which can guide him in his perplexity. Aside from 
general human inadequacy, a good deal of the blame for this rests 
with education, which promulgates the old generalizations and says 
nothing about the secrets of private experience. Thus, every effort is 
made to teach idealistic beliefs or conduct which people know in 
their hearts they can never live up to, and such ideals are preached 
by officials who know that they themselves have never lived up to 
these high standards and never will. What is more, nobody ever 
questions the value of this kind of teaching. 

Therefore the individual who wishes to have an answer to the 



problem of evil, as it is posed today, has need, first and foremost, 
of self-knowledge, that is, the utmost possible knowledge of his own 
wholeness. He must know relentlessly how much good he can do, 
and what crimes he is capable of, and must beware of regarding 
the one as real and the other as illusion. Both are elements within 
his nature, and both are bound to come to light in him, should he 
wish as he ought to live without self-deception or self-delusion. 

In general, however, most people are hopelessly ill equipped for 
living on this level, although there are also many persons today who 
have the capacity for profounder insight into themselves. Such self- 
knowledge is of prime importance, because through it we approach 
that fundamental stratum or core of human nature where the 
instincts dwell. Here are those pre- existent dynamic factors which 
ultimately govern the ethical decisions of our consciousness. This 
core is the unconscious and its contents, concerning which we 
cannot pass any final judgment. Our ideas about it are bound to be 
inadequate, for we are unable to comprehend its essence 
cognitively and set rational limits to it. We achieve knowledge of 
nature only through science, which enlarges consciousness; hence 
deepened self-knowledge also requires science, that is, 
psychology. No one builds a telescope or microscope with one turn 
of the wrist, out of good will alone, without a knowledge of optics. 

Today we need psychology for reasons that involve our very 
existence. We stand perplexed and stupefied before the 
phenomenon of Nazism and Bolshevism because we know nothing 
about man, or at any rate have only a lopsided and distorted picture 
of him. If we had self-knowledge, that would not be the case. We 
stand face to face with the terrible question of evil and do not even 
know what is before us, let alone what to pit against it. And even if 
we did know, we still could not understand "how it could happen 
here." With glorious naivete a statesman comes out with the proud 
declaration that he has no "imagination for evil". Quite right: we 



have no imagination for evil, but evil has us in its grip. Some do not 
want to know this, and others are identified with evil. That is the 
psychological situation in the world today: some call themselves 
Christian and imagine that they can trample so-called evil underfoot 
by merely willing to; others have succumbed to it and no longer see 
the good. Evil today has become a visible Great Power. One half of 
humanity battens and grows strong on a doctrine fabricated by 
human ratiocination; the other half sickens from the lack of a myth 
commensurate with the situation. The Christian nations have come 
to a sorry pass; their Christianity slumbers and has neglected to 
develop its myth further in the course of the centuries. 

Those who gave expression to the dark stirrings of growth in mythic 
ideas were refused a hearing; Gioacchino da Fiore, Meister 
Eckhart, Jacob Boehme, and many others have remained 
obscurantists for the majority. The only ray of light is Pius XII and his 
dogma. [3] But people do not even know what I am referring to 
when I say this. They do not realize that a myth is dead if it no longer 
lives and grows. 

Our myth has become mute, and gives no answers. The fault lies 
not in it as it is set down in the Scriptures, but solely in us, who have 
not developed it further, who, rather, have suppressed any such 
attempts. The original version of the myth offers ample points of 
departure and possibilities of development. For example, the words 
are put into Christ's mouth: "Be ye therefore wise as serpents, and 
harmless as doves." For what purpose do men need the cunning of 
serpents? And what is the link between this cunning and the 
innocence of the dove? "Except ye become as little children..." Who 
gives thought to what children are like in reality? By what morality 
did the Lord justify the taking of the ass which he needed in order to 
ride in triumph into Jerusalem? How was it that, shortly afterward, 
he put on a display of childish bad temper and cursed the fig tree? 



What kind of morality emerges from the parable of the unjust 
steward, and what profound insight, of such far-reaching 
significance for our own predicament, from the apocryphal logion: 
"Man, if thou knowest what thou dost, thou art blessed; but if thou 
knowest not, thou art accursed and a transgressor of the law"? [4] 
What, finally, does it mean when St. Paul confesses: "The evil which 
I would not, that I do"? I will not discuss the transparent prophecies 
of the Book of Revelation, because no one believes in them and the 
whole subject is felt to be an embarrassing one. 

The old question posed by the Gnostics, "Whence comes evil?" 
has been given no answer by the Christian world, and Origen's 
cautious suggestion of a possible redemption of the devil was 
termed a heresy. Today we are compelled to meet that question; 
but we stand empty-handed, bewildered, and perplexed, and 
cannot even get it into our heads that no myth will come to our 

3 See above, Chap. VII, n. , p. 202. 

4 Codex Bezae ad Lucam 6, 4. 

aid although we have such urgent need of one. As the result of the 
political situation and the frightful, not to say diabolic, triumphs of 
science, we are shaken by secret shudders and dark forebodings; 
but we know no way out, and very few persons indeed draw the 
conclusion that this time the issue is the long-since-forgotten soul of 
man. 

A further development of myth might well begin with the outpouring 
of the Holy Spirit upon the apostles, by which they were made into 
sons of God, and not only they, but all others who through them and 
after them received the filiatio— sonship of God-and thus partook of 
the certainty that they were more than autochthonous animalia 
sprung from the earth, that as the twice-born they had their roots in 
the divinity itself. Their visible, physical life was on this earth; but the 



invisible inner man had come from and would return to the 
primordial image of wholeness, to the eternal Father, as the 
Christian myth of salvation puts it. 

Just as the Creator is whole, so His creature, His son, ought to be 
whole. Nothing can take away from the concept of divine 
wholeness. But unbeknownst to all, a splitting of that wholeness 
ensued; there emerged a realm of light and a realm of darkness. 
This outcome, even before Christ appeared, was clearly prefigured, 
as we may observe inter alia in the experience of Job, or in the 
widely disseminated Book of Enoch, which belongs to immediate 
pre-Christian times. In Christianity, too, this meta-physical split was 
plainly perpetuated: Satan, who in the Old Testament still belonged 
to the intimate entourage of Yahweh, now formed the diametrical 
and eternal opposite of the divine world. He could not be uprooted. 
It is therefore not surprising that as early as the beginning of the 
eleventh century the belief arose that the devil, not God, had 
created the world. Thus the keynote was struck for the second half 
of the Christian aeon, after the myth of the fall of the angels had 
already explained that these fallen angels had taught men a 
dangerous knowledge of science and the arts. What would these 
old storytellers have to say about Hiroshima? 

The visionary genius of Jacob Boehme recognized the paradoxical 
nature of the God-image and thus contributed to the further 
development of the myth. The mandala symbol sketched by 
Boehme [5] is a representation of the split God, for the inner circle 
is divided into two semicircles standing back to back. 

Since dogma holds that God is wholly present in each of the three 
Persons, He is also wholly present in each part of the out- poured 
Holy Spirit; thus every man can partake of the whole of God and 
hence of the filiation. The complexio oppositorum of the God-image 
thus enters into man, and not as unity, but as conflict, the dark half of 



the image coming into opposition with the accepted view that God 
is "Light." This very process is taking place in our own times, albeit 
scarcely recognized by the official teachers of humanity whose task, 
supposedly, is to understand such matters. There is the general 
feeling, to be sure, that we have reached a significant turning point 
in the ages, but people imagine that the great change has to do 
with nuclear fission and fusion, or with space rockets. What is 
concurrently taking place in the human psyche is usually 
overlooked. 

Insofar as the God-image is, from the psychological point of view, a 
manifestation of the ground of the psyche, and insofar as the 
cleavage in that image is becoming clear to mankind as a profound 
dichotomy which penetrates even into world politics, a 
compensation has arisen. This takes the form of circular symbols of 
unity which represent a synthesis of the opposites within the 
psyche. I refer to the worldwide rumors of Unidentified Flying 
Objects, of which we began to hear as early as 1 943. These rumors 
are founded either upon visions or upon actual phenomena. The 
usual story about the UFOs is that they are some kind of spacecraft 
coming from other planets or even from the fourth dimension. 

More than twenty years earlier (in 1918), in the course of my 
investigations of the collective unconscious, I discovered the 
presence of an apparently universal symbol of a similar type the 
mandala symbol. To make sure of my case, I spent more than a 
decade amassing additional data, before announcing my discovery 
for the first time. [6] The mandala is an archetypal image 

5 Reproduced in The Archetypes and the Collects Unconscious (CW 9, i), 
p. 297. 

6 In the commentary to The Secret of the Golden Flower ( 1931) (CW 13). 
whose occurrence is attested throughout the ages. It signifies the 



wholeness of the self. This circular image represents the wholeness 
of the psychic ground or, to put it in mythic terms, the divinity 
incarnate in man. In contrast to Boehme's mandala, the modern 
ones strive for unity; they represent a compensation of the psychic 
cleavage, or an anticipation that the cleavage will be surmounted. 
Since this process takes place in the collective unconscious, it 
manifests itself everywhere. The worldwide stories of the UFOs are 
evidence of that; they are the symptom of a universally present 
psychic disposition. 

Insofar as analytical treatment makes the "shadow" conscious, it 
causes a cleavage and a tension of opposites which in their turn 
seek compensation in unity. The adjustment is achieved through 
symbols. The conflict between the opposites can strain our psyche 
to the breaking point, if we take them seriously, or if they take us 
seriously. The tertium non datur of logic proves its worth: no solution 
can be seen. If all goes well, the solution, seemingly of its own 
accord, appears out of nature. Then and then only is it convincing. It 
is felt as "grace" Since the solution proceeds out of the 
confrontation and clash of opposites, it is usually an unfathomable 
mixture of conscious and unconscious factors, and therefore a 
symbol, a coin split into two halves which fit together precisely. [7] It 
represents the result of the joint labors of consciousness and the 
unconscious, and attains the likeness of the God-image in the form 
of the mandala, which is probably the simplest model of a concept 
of wholeness, and one which spontaneously arises in the mind as a 
representation of the struggle and reconciliation of opposites. The 
clash, which is at first of a purely personal nature, is soon followed 
by the insight that the subjective conflict is only a single instance of 
the universal conflict of opposites. Our psyche is set up in accord 
with the structure of the universe, and what happens in the 
macrocosm likewise happens in the infinitesimal and most 
subjective reaches of the psyche. For that reason the God-image is 



always a projection of the inner experience of a powerful vis-a-vis. 
This is symbolized by objects from which 

7 One of the meanings of symbolon is the tessera hospitalitatis between 
host and guest, the broken coin which is shared between two parting 
friends. A. J. 

the inner experience has taken its initial impulse, and which from 
then on preserve numinous significance, or else it is char- acterized 
by its numinosity and the overwhelming force of that numinosity. In 
this way the imagination liberates itself from the concretism of the 
object and attempts to sketch the image of the invisible as 
something which stands behind the phenomenon. I am thinking here 
of the simplest basic form of the mandala, the circle, and the 
simplest (mental) division of the circle, the quadrant or, as the case 
may be, the cross. 

Such experiences have a helpful or, it may be, annihilating effect 
upon man. He cannot grasp, comprehend, dominate them; nor can 
he free himself or escape from them, and therefore feels them as 
overpowering. Recognizing that they do not spring from his 
conscious personality, he calls them mana, daimon, or God. 
Science employs the term "the unconscious," thus admitting that it 
knows nothing about it, for it can know nothing about the substance 
of the psyche when the sole means of knowing anything is the 
psyche. Therefore the validity of such terms as mana, daimon, or 
God can be neither disproved nor affirmed. We can, however, 
establish that the sense of strangeness connected with the 
experience of something objective, apparently outside the psyche, 
is indeed authentic. 

We know that something unknown, alien, does come our way, just 
as we know that we do not ourselves make a dream or an 
inspiration, but that it somehow arises of its own accord. What does 



happen to us in this manner can be said to emanate from mana, 
from a daimon, a god, or the unconscious. The first three terms 
have the great merit of including and evoking the emotional quality 
of numinosity, whereas the latter the unconscious is banal and 
therefore closer to reality. This latter concept includes the empirical 
realm that is, the commonplace reality we know so well. The 
unconscious is too neutral and rational a term to give much impetus 
to the imagination. The term, after all, was coined for scientific 
purposes, and is far better suited to dispassionate observation 
which makes no meta-physical claims than are the transcendental 
concepts, which are controversial and therefore tend to breed 
fanaticism. 

Hence I prefer the term "the unconscious," knowing that I might 
equally well speak of "God" or "daimon" if I wished to express 
myself in mythic language. When I do use such mythic language, I 
am aware that "mana," "daimon," and "God" are synonyms for the 
unconscious that is to say, we know just as much or just as little 
about them as about the latter. People only believe they know much 
more about them and for certain purposes that belief is far more 
useful and effective than a scientific concept. The great advantage 
of the concepts "daimon" and "God" lies in making possible a 
much better objectification of the vis-a-vis, namely, a personification 
of it. Their emotional quality confers life and effectuality upon them. 
Hate and love, fear and reverence, enter the scene of the 
confrontation and raise it to a drama. What has merely been 
"displayed" becomes "acted." [8] The whole man is challenged and 
enters the fray with his total reality. Only then can he become whole 
and only then can "God be born," that is, enter into human reality 
and associate with man in the form of "man." By this act of 
incarnation man that is, his ego is inwardly replaced by "God," and 
God becomes outwardly man, in keeping with the saying of Jesus: 
"Who sees me, sees the Father." 



It is at this point that the shortcomings of mythic terminology 
become apparent. The Christian's ordinary conception of God is of 
an omnipotent, omniscient, and all-merciful Father and Creator of 
the world. If this God wishes to become man, an incredible kenosis 
(emptying) [9] is required of Him, in order to reduce His totality to 
the infinitesimal human scale. Even then it is hard to see why the 
human frame is not shattered by the incarnation. Theological 
thinkers have therefore felt it necessary to equip Jesus with 
qualities which raise him above ordinary human existence. Above 
all he lacks the macula peccati (stain of original sin). For that 
reason, if for no other, he is at least a god-man or a demigod. The 
Christian God-image cannot become incarnate in empirical man 
without contradictions quite apart from the fact that man with all his 
external characteristics seems little suited to representing a god. 

8 Cf. "Transformation Symbolism in the Mass," in Psychology and Religion: 
West and East (CW1 1 ), pp. 249-50 

9 Philippians 2: 6. 

The myth must ultimately take monotheism seriously and put aside 
its dualism, which, however much repudiated officially, has 
persisted until now and enthroned an eternal dark antagonist 
alongside the omnipotent Good. Room must be made within the 
system for the philosophical complexio oppositorum of Nicholas of 
Cusa and the moral ambivalence of Jacob Boehme; only thus can 
the One God be granted the wholeness and the synthesis of 
opposites which should be His. It is a fact that symbols, by their very 
nature, can so unite the opposites that these no longer diverge or 
clash, but mutually supplement one another and give meaningful 
shape to life. Once that has been experienced, the ambivalence in 
the image of a nature-god or Creator-god ceases to present 
difficulties. On the contrary, the myth of the necessary incarnation of 
God the essence of the Christian message can then be understood 
as man's creative confrontation with the opposites and their 



synthesis in the self, the wholeness of his personality. The 
unavoidable internal contradictions in the image of a Creator-god 
can be reconciled in the unity and wholeness of the self as the 
coniunctio oppositorum of the alchemists or as a unio mystica. In 
the experience of the self it is no longer the opposites "God" and 
"man" that are reconciled, as it was before, but rather the opposites 
within the God-image itself. That is the meaning of divine service, of 
the service which man can render to God, that light may emerge 
from the darkness, that the Creator may become conscious of His 
creation, and man conscious of himself. 

That is the goal, or one goal, which fits man meaningfully into the 
scheme of creation, and at the same time confers meaning upon it. 
It is an explanatory myth which has slowly taken shape within me in 
the course of the decades. It is a goal I can acknowledge and 
esteem, and which therefore satisfies me. 

By virtue of his reflective faculties, man is raised out of the animal 
world, and by his mind he demonstrates that nature has put a high 
premium precisely upon the developmerit of consciousness. 
Through consciousness he takes possession of nature by 
recognizing the existence of the world and thus, as it were, 
confirming the Creator. The world becomes the phenomenal world, 
for without conscious reflection it would not be. If the Creator were 
conscious of Himself, He would not need conscious creatures; nor 
is it probable that the extremely indirect methods of creation, which 
squander millions of years upon the development of countless 
species and creatures, are the outcome of purposeful intention. 
Natural history tells us of a haphazard and casual transformation of 
species over hundreds of millions of years of devouring and being 
devoured. The biological and political history of man is an elaborate 
repetition of the same thing. But the history of the mind offers a 
different picture. Here the miracle of reflecting consciousness 
intervenes the second cosmogony. The importance of 



consciousness is so great that one cannot help suspecting the 
element of meaning to be concealed somewhere within all the 
monstrous, apparently senseless biological turmoil, and that the 
road to its manifestation was ultimately found on the level of warm- 
blooded vertebrates possessed of a differentiated brain found as if 
by chance, unintended and unforeseen, and yet somehow sensed, 
felt and groped for out of some dark urge. 

I do not imagine that in my reflections on the meaning of man and 
his myth I have uttered a final truth, but I think that this is what can be 
said at the end of our aeon of the Fishes, and perhaps must be 
said in view of the coming aeon of Aquarius (the Water Bearer), 
who has a human figure and is next to the sign of the Fishes. This is 
a coniunctio oppositorum composed of two fishes in reverse. The 
Water Bearer seems to represent the self. With a sovereign 
gesture he pours the contents of his jug into the mouth of Piscis 
austrinus which symbolizes a son, a still unconscious content. Out of 
this unconscious content will emerge, after the passage of another 
aeon of more than two thousand years, a future whose features are 
indicated by the symbol of Capricorn: an aigokeros, the monstrosity 
of the Goat-Fish, [11] symbolizing the mountains and the depths of 
the sea, a polarity 

10 Constellation of the "Southern Fish." Its mouth is formed by Fomalhaut 
(Arabic for "mouth of the fish" ) below the constellation of the Water Bearer. 

11 The constellation of Capricorn was originally called the "Goat-Fish." 

made up of two undifferentiated animal elements which have grown 
together. This strange being could easily be the primordial image of 
a Creator-god confronting "man," the Anthropos. On this question 
there is a silence within me, as there is in the empirical data at my 
disposal the products of the unconscious of other people with which 
I am acquainted, or historical documents. If insight does not come 



by itself, speculation is pointless. It makes sense only when we 
have objective data comparable to our material on the aeon of 
Aquarius. 

We do not know how far the process of coming to consciousness 
can extend, or where it will lead. It is a new element in the story of 
creation, and there are no parallels we can look to. We therefore 
cannot know what potentialities are inherent in it. Neither can we 
know the prospects for the species Homo sapiens. Will it imitate 
the fate of other species, which once flourished on the earth and 
now are extinct? Biology can advance no reasons why this should 
not be so. 

The need for mythic statements is satisfied when we frame a view 
of the world which adequately explains the meaning of human 
existence in the cosmos, a view which springs from our psychic 
wholeness, from the co-operation between conscious and 
unconscious. Meaninglessness inhibits fullness of life and is 
therefore equivalent to illness. Meaning makes a great many things 
endurable perhaps everything. No science will ever replace myth, 
and a myth cannot be made out of any science. For it is not that 
"God" is a myth, but that myth is the revelation of a divine life in 
man. It is not we who invent myth, rather it speaks to us as a Word 
of God. The Word of God comes to us, and we have no way of 
distinguishing whether and to what extent it is different from God. 
There is nothing about this Word that could not be considered 
known and human, except for the manner in which it confronts us 
spontaneously and places obligations upon us. It is not affected by 
the arbitrary operation of our will. We cannot explain an inspiration. 
Our chief feeling about it is that it is not the result of our own 
ratiocinations, but that it came to us from elsewhere. And if we 
happen to have a precognitive dream, how can we possibly ascribe 
it to our own powers? After all, often we do not even know, until 
some time afterward, that the dream represented foreknowledge, 



or knowledge of something that happened at a distance. 

The Word happens to us; we suffer it, for we are victims of a 
profound uncertainty: with God as a complexio oppositorum, all 
things are possible, in the fullest meaning of the phrase. Truth and 
delusion, good and evil, are equally possible. Myth is or can be 
equivocal, like the oracle of Delphi or like a dream. We cannot and 
ought not to repudiate reason; but equally we must cling to the hope 
that instinct will hasten to our aid in which case God is supporting 
us against God, as Job long ago understood. Everything through 
which the "other will" is expressed proceeds from man his thinking, 
his words, his images, and even his limitations. Consequently he 
has the tendency to refer everything to himself, when he begins to 
think in clumsy psychological terms, and decides that everything 
proceeds out of his intentions and out of himself. With childlike 
naivete he assumes that he knows all his own reaches and knows 
what he is "in himself." Yet all the while he is fatally handicapped by 
the weakness of his consciousness and the corresponding fear of 
the unconscious. Therefore he is utterly unable to separate what he 
has carefully reasoned out from what has spontaneously flowed to 
him from another source. He has no objectivity toward himself and 
cannot yet regard himself as a phenomenon which he finds in 
existence and with which, for better or worse, he is identical. At first 
everything is thrust upon him, everything happens to him, and it is 
only by great effort that he finally succeeds in conquering and 
holding for himself an area of relative freedom. 

Only when he has won his way to this achievement, and then only, is 
he in a position to recognize that he is confronting his instinctive 
foundations, given him from the beginning, which he cannot make 
disappear, however much he would like to. His beginnings are not 
by any means mere pasts; they live with him as the constant 
substratum of his existence, and his consciousness is as much 



molded by them as by the physical world around him. 

These facts assail man from without and from within with 
overwhelming force. He has summed them up under the idea of 
divinity, has described their effects with the aid of myth, and has 
interpreted this myth as the "Word of God," that is, as the 
inspiration and revelation of the numen from the "other side." 



There is no better means of intensifying the treasured feeling of 
individuality than the possession of a secret which the individual is 
pledged to guard. The very beginnings of societal structures reveal 
the craving for secret organizations. When no valid secrets really 
exist, mysteries are invented or contrived to which privileged 
initiates are admitted. Such was the case with the Rosicrucians and 
many other societies. Among these pseudo-secrets there are 
ironically real secrets of which the initiates are entirely unaware as, 
for example, in those societies which borrowed their "secret" 
primarily from the alchemical tradition. 

The need for ostentatious secrecy is of vital importance on the 
primitive level, for the shared secret serves as a cement binding the 
tribe together. Secrets on the tribal level constitute a helpful 
compensation for lack of cohesion in the individual personality, 
which is constantly relapsing into the original unconscious identity 
with other members of the group. Attainment of the human goal an 
individual who is conscious of his own peculiar nature thus 
becomes a long, almost hopeless process of education. For even 
the individuals whose initiation into certain secrets has marked 
them out in some way are fundamentally obeying the laws of group 



identity, though in their case the group is a socially differentiated 
one. 

The secret society is an intermediary stage on the way to 
individuation. The individual is still relying on a collective 
organization to effect his differentiation for him; that is, he has not 
yet recognized that it is really the individual's task to differentiate 
himself from all the others and stand on his own feet. All collective 
identities, such as membership in organizations, support of "isms," 
and so on, interfere with the fulfillment of this task. Such collective 
identities are crutches for the lame, shields for the timid, beds for 
the lazy, nurseries for the irresponsible; but they are equally shelters 
for the poor and weak, a home port for the shipwrecked, the bosom 
of a family for orphans, a land of promise for disillusioned vagrants 
and weary pilgrims, a herd and a safe fold for lost sheep, and a 
mother providing nourishment and growth. It would therefore be 
wrong to regard this intermediary stage as a trap; on the contrary, 
for a long time to come it will represent the only possible form of 
existence for the individual, who nowadays seems more than ever 
threatened by anonymity. Collective organization is still so essential 
today that many consider it, with some justification, to be the final 
goal; whereas to call for further steps along the road to autonomy 
appears like arrogance or hubris, fantasticality, or simply folly. 

Nevertheless it may be that for sufficient reasons a man feels he 
must set out on his own feet along the road to wider realms. It may 
be that in all the garbs, shapes, forms, modes, and manners of life 
offered to him he does not find what is peculiarly necessary for him. 
He will go alone and be his own company. He will serve as his own 
group, consisting of a variety of opinions and tendencies which 
need not necessarily be marching in the same direction. In fact, he 
will be at odds with himself, and will find great difficulty in uniting his 
own multiplicity for purposes of common action. Even if he is 
outwardly protected by the social forms of the intermediary stage, 



he will have no defense against his inner multiplicity. The disunion 
within himself may cause him to give up, to lapse into identity with 
his surroundings. 

Like the initiate of a secret society who has broken free from the 
undifferentiated collectivity, the individual on his lonely path needs a 
secret which for various reasons he may not or cannot reveal. Such 
a secret reinforces him in the isolation of his individual aims. A 
great many individuals cannot bear this isolation. They are the 
neurotics, who necessarily play hide-and-seek with others as well 
as with themselves, without being able to take the game really 
seriously. As a rule they end by surrendering their individual goal to 
their craving for collective conformity a procedure which all the 
opinions, beliefs, and ideals of their environment encourage. 
Moreover, no rational arguments prevail against the environment. 
Only a secret which the individual cannot betray one which he fears 
to give away, or which he cannot formulate in words, and which 
therefore seems to belong to the category of crazy ideas can 
prevent the otherwise inevitable retrogression. 

The need for such a secret is in many cases so compelling that the 
individual finds himself involved in ideas and actions for which he is 
no longer responsible. He is being motivated neither by caprice nor 
arrogance, but by a dira necessitas which he himself cannot 
comprehend. This necessity comes down upon him with savage 
fatefulness, and perhaps for the first time in his life demonstrates to 
him ad oculos the presence of something alien and more powerful 
than himself in his own most personal domain, where he thought 
himself the master. A vivid example is the story of Jacob, who 
wrestled with the angel and came away with a dislocated hip, but by 
his struggle prevented a murder. In those fortunate days, Jacob's 
story was believed without question. A contemporary Jacob, telling 
such a tale, would be treated to meaningful smiles. He would prefer 



not to speak of such matters, especially if he were inclined to have 
his private views about the nature of Yahweh's messenger. Thus he 
would find himself willy-nilly in possession of a secret that could not 
be discussed, and would become a deviant from the collectivity. 
Naturally, his mental reservation would ultimately come to light, 
unless he succeeded in playing the hypocrite all his life. But anyone 
who attempts to do both, to adjust to his group and at the same 
time pursue his individual goal, becomes neurotic. Our modern 
Jacob would be concealing from himself the fact that the angel was 
after all the stronger of the two as he certainly was, for no claims 
were ever made that the angel, too, came away with a limp. 

The man, therefore, who, driven by his daimon, steps beyond the 
limits of the intermediary stage, truly enters the "untrodden, 
untreadable regions". [12] where there are no charted ways and no 
shelter spreads a protecting roof over his head. There are no 
precepts to guide him when he encounters an unforeseen situation 
for example, a conflict of duties. For the most part, these 

12 Faust, Part Two. 

sallies into no man's land last only as long as no such conflicts 
occur, and come swiftly to an end as soon as conflict is sniffed from 
afar. I cannot blame the person who takes to his heels at once. But 
neither can I approve his finding merit in his weakness and 
cowardice. Since my contempt can do him no further harm, I may as 
well say that I find nothing praiseworthy about such capitulations. 

But if a man faced with a conflict of duties undertakes to deal with 
them absolutely on his own responsibility, and before a judge who 
sits in judgment on him day and night, he may well find himself in an 
isolated position. There is now an authentic secret in his life which 
cannot be discussed if only because he is involved in an endless 
inner trial in which he is his own counsel and ruthless examiner, and 



no secular or spiritual judge can restore his easy sleep. If he were 
not already sick to death of the decisions of such judges, he would 
never have found himself in a conflict. For such a conflict always 
presupposes a higher sense of responsibility. It is this very quality 
which keeps its possessor from accepting the decision of a 
collectivity. In his case the court is transposed to the inner world 
where the verdict is pronounced behind closed doors. 

Once this happens, the psyche of the individual acquires 
heightened importance. It is not only the seat of his well-known and 
socially defined ego; it is also the instrument for measuring what it 
is worth in and for itself. Nothing so promotes the growth of 
consciousness as this inner confrontation of opposites. Quite 
unsuspected facts turn up in the indictment, and the defense is 
obliged to discover arguments hitherto unknown. In the course of 
this, a considerable portion of the outer world reaches the inner, 
and by that very fact the outer world is impoverished or relieved. On 
the other hand, the inner world has gained that much weight by 
being raised to the rank of a tribunal for ethical decisions. However, 
the once unequivocal ego loses the prerogative of being merely the 
prosecutor; it must also learn the role of defendant. The ego 
becomes ambivalent arid ambiguous, and is caught between 
hammer and anvil. It becomes aware of a polarity superordinate to 
itself. 

By no means every conflict of duties, and perhaps not even a single 
one, is ever really "solved," though it may be argued over, weighed, 
and counterweighed till doomsday. Sooner or later the decision is 
simply there, the product, it would seem, of some kind of short- 
circuit. Practical life cannot be suspended in an everlasting 
contradiction. The opposites and the contradictions between them 
do not vanish, however, even when for a moment they yield before 
the impulse to action. They constantly threaten the unity of the 
personality, and entangle life again and again in their dichotomies. 



Insight into the dangers and the painfulness of such a state might 
well decide one to stay at home, that is, never to leave the safe fold 
and the warm cocoon, since these alone promise protection from 
inner stress. Those who do not have to leave father and mother are 
certainly safest with them. A good many persons, however, find 
themselves thrust out upon the road to individuation. In no time at all 
they will become acquainted with the positive and negative aspects 
of human nature. 

Just as all energy proceeds from opposition, so the psyche too 
possesses its inner polarity, this being the indispensable 
prerequisite for its aliveness, as Heraclitus realized long ago. Both 
theoretically and practically, polarity is inherent in all living things. 
Set against this overpowering force is the fragile unity of the ego, 
which has come into being in the course of millennia only with the 
aid of countless protective measures. That an ego was possible at 
all appears to spring from the fact that all opposites seek to achieve 
a state of balance. This happens in the exchange of energy which 
results from the collision of hot and cold, high and low, and so on. 
The energy underlying conscious psychic life is pre-existent to it 
and therefore at first unconscious. As it approaches consciousness 
it first appears projected in figures like mana, gods, daimons, etc., 
whose numen seems to be the vital source of energy, and in point 
of fact is so as long as these supernatural figures are accepted. But 
as these fade and lose their force, the ego that is, the empirical 
man seems to come into possession of this source of energy, and 
does so in the fullest meaning of this ambiguous statement: on the 
one hand he seeks to seize this energy, to possess it, and even 
imagines that he does possess it; and on the other hand he is 
possessed by it. 

This grotesque situation can, to be sure, occur only when the 
contents of consciousness are regarded as the sole form of psychic 



existence. Where this is the case, there is no preventing inflation by 
projections coming home to roost. But where the existence of an 
unconscious psyche is admitted, the contents of projection can be 
received into the inborn instinctive forms which predate 
consciousness. Their objectivity and autonomy are thereby 
preserved, and inflation is avoided. The archetypes, which are pre- 
existent to consciousness and condition it, appear in the part they 
actually play in reality: as a priori structural forms of the stuff of 
consciousness. They do not in any sense represent things as they 
are in themselves, but rather the forms in which things can be 
perceived and conceived. Naturally, it is not merely the archetypes 
that govern the particular nature of perceptions. They account only 
for the collective component of a perception. As an attribute of 
instinct they partake of its dynamic nature, and consequently 
possess a specific energy which causes or compels definite 
modes of behavior or impulses; that is, they may under certain 
circumstances have a possessive or obsessive force (numinosityl). 
The conception of them as daimonia is therefore quite in accord 
with their nature. 

If anyone is inclined to believe that any aspect of the nature of things 
is changed by such formulations, he is being extremely credulous 
about words. The real facts do not change, whatever names we 
give them. Only we ourselves are affected. If one were to conceive 
of "God" as "pure Nothingness," that has nothing whatsoever to do 
with the fact of a superordinate principle. We are just as much 
possessed as before; the change of name has removed nothing at 
all from reality. At most we have taken a false attitude toward reality 
if the new name implies a denial. On the other hand, a positive 
name for the unknowable has the merit of putting us into a 
correspondingly positive attitude. If, therefore, we speak of "God" 
as an "archetype," we are saying nothing about His real nature but 
are letting it be known that "God" already has a place in that part of 



our psyche which is pre-existent to consciousness and that He 
therefore cannot be considered an invention of consciousness. We 
neither make Him more remote nor eliminate Him, but bring Him 
closer to the possibility of being experienced. This latter 
circumstance is by no means unimportant, for a thing which cannot 
be experienced may easily be suspected of non-existence. This 
suspicion is so inviting that so-called believers in God see nothing 
but atheism in my attempt to reconstruct the primitive unconscious 
psyche. Or if not atheism, then Gnosticism anything, heaven forbid, 
but a psychic reality like the unconscious. If the unconscious is 
anything at all, it must consist of earlier evolutionary stages of our 
conscious psyche. The assumption that man in his whole glory was 
created on the sixth day of Creation, without any preliminary stages, 
is after all somewhat too simple and archaic to satisfy us 
nowadays. There is pretty general agreement on that score. In 
regard to the psyche, however, the archaic conception holds on 
tenaciously: the psyche has no antecedents, is a tabula rasa, arises 
anew at birth, and is only what it imagines itself to be. 

Consciousness is phylogenetically and ontogenetically a secondary 
phenomenon. It is time this obvious fact were grasped at last. Just 
as the body has an anatomical prehistory of millions of years, so 
also does the psychic system. And just as the human body today 
represents in each of its parts the result of this evolution, and 
everywhere still shows traces of its earlier stages so the same may 
be said of the psyche. Consciousness began its evolution from an 
animal-like state which seems to us unconscious, and the same 
process of differentiation is repeated in every child. The psyche of 
the child in its reconscious state is anything but a tabula rasa; it is 
already preformed in a recognizably individual way, and is 
moreover equipped with all specifically human instincts, as well as 
with the a priori foundations of the higher functions. 

On this complicated base, the ego arises. Throughout life the ego is 



sustained by this base. When the base does not function, stasis 
ensues and then death. Its life and its reality are of vital importance. 
Compared to it, even the external world is secondary, for what does 
the world matter if the endogenous impulse to grasp it and 
manipulate it is lacking? In the long run no conscious will can ever 
replace the life instinct. This instinct comes to us from within, as a 
compulsion or will or command, and-if as has more or less been 
done from time immemorial-we give it the name of a personal 
daimon we are at least aptly expressing the psychological situation. 
And if, by employing the concept of the archetype, we attempt to 
define a little more closely the point at which the daimon grips us, 
we have not abolished anything, only approached closer to the 
source of life. 

It is only natural that I as a psychiatrist (doctor of the soul) should 
espouse such a view, for I am primarily interested in how I can help 
my patients find their healthy base again. To do that, a great variety 
of knowledge is needed, as I have learned. Medicine in general 
has, after all, proceeded in like manner. It has not made its 
advances through the discovery of some single trick of healing, thus 
phenomenally simplifying its methods. On the contrary, it has 
evolved into a science of enormous complexity not the least of the 
reasons being that it has made borrowings from all possible fields. 
Hence I am not concerned with proving anything to other 
disciplines; I am merely attempting to put their knowledge to good 
use in my own field. Naturally, it is incumbent upon me to report on 
such applications and their consequences. For certain new things 
come to light when one transfers the knowledge of one field to 
another and applies it in practice. Had X-rays remained the 
exclusive property of the physicist and not been applied in 
medicine, we would know far less. Then again, if radiation therapy 
has in some circumstances dangerous consequences, that is 
interesting to the physician; but it is not necessarily of interest to the 



physicist, who uses radiation in an altogether different manner and 
for other purposes. Nor will he think that the physician has poached 
upon his territory when the latter points out certain harmful or 
salutary properties of the invisible rays. 

If I, for example, apply historical or theological insights in 
psychotherapy, they naturally appear in a different light and lead to 
conclusions other than those to which they lead when restricted to 
their proper fields, where they serve other purposes. 

The fact, therefore, that a polarity underlies the dynamics of the 
psyche means that the whole problem of opposites in its broadest 
sense, with all its concomitant religious and philosophical aspects, 
is drawn into the psychological discussion. These aspects lose the 
autonomous character they have in their own field inevitably so, 
since they are approached in terms of psychological questions; that 
is, they are no longer viewed from the angle of religious or 
philosophical truth, but are examined for their psychological validity 
and significance. Leaving aside their claim to be independent 
truths, the fact remains that regarded empirically which is to say, 
scientifically they are primarily psychic phenomena. This fact seems 
to me incontestable. That they claim a justification for themselves is 
in keeping with the psychological approach, which does not brand 
such a claim unjustified, but on the contrary treats it with special 
consideration. Psychology has no room for judgments like "only 
religious" or "only philosophical".despite the fact that we too often 
hear the charge of something's being "only psychological" 
especially from theologians. 

All conceivable statements are made by the psyche. Among other 
things, the psyche appears as a dynamic process which rests on a 
foundation of antithesis, on a flow of energy between two poles. It is 
a general rule of logic that "principles are not to be multiplied 
beyond the necessary." Therefore, since interpretation in terms of 



energy has proved a generally valid principle of explanation in the 
natural sciences, we must limit ourselves to it in psychology also. 
No firm facts are available which would recommend some other 
view; moreover, the antithetical or polaristic nature of the psyche 
and its contents is verified by psychological experience. [13] 

Now if the dynamic conception of the psyche is correct, all 
statements which seek to overstep the limits of the psyche's polarity 
statements about a metaphysical reality, for example must be 
paradoxical if they are to lay claim to any sort of validity. 

The psyche cannot leap beyond itself. It cannot set up any absolute 
truths, for its own polarity determines the relativity of its 

13 Cf. "On Psychic Energy," in The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche 
(CW8). 

statements. Wherever the psyche does announce absolute truths 
such as, for example, "God is motion," or "God is One" it 
necessarily falls into one or the other of its own antitheses. For the 
two statements might equally well be: "God is rest".or"God is All." 
Through one-sidedness the psyche disintegrates and loses its 
capacity for cognition. It becomes an unreflective (because 
unreflectable) succession of psychic states, each of which fancies 
itself its own justification because it does not, or does not yet, see 
any other state. 

In saying this we are not expressing a value judgment, but only 
pointing out that the limit is very frequently overstepped. Indeed, this 
is inevitable, for, as Heraclitus says, "Everything is flux".Thesis is 
followed by antithesis, and between the two is generated a third 
factor, a lysis which was not perceptible before. In this the psyche 
once again merely demonstrates its antithetical nature and at no 
point has really got outside itself. 



In my effort to depict the limitations of the psyche I do not mean to 
imply that only the psyche exists. It is merely that, so far as 
perception and cognition are concerned, we cannot see beyond the 
psyche. Science is tacitly convinced that a non- psychic, 
transcendental object exists. But science also knows how difficult it 
is to grasp the real nature of the object, especially when the organ 
of perception fails or is lacking, and when the appropriate modes of 
thought do not exist or have still to be created. In cases where 
neither our sense organs nor their artificial aids can attest the 
presence of a real object, the difficulties mount enormously, so that 
one feels tempted to assert that there is simply no real object 
present. I have never drawn this overhasty conclusion, for I have 
never been inclined to think that our senses were capable of 
perceiving all forms of being. I have, therefore, even hazarded the 
postulate that the phenomenon of archetypal configurations which 
are psychic events par excellence may be founded upon a psychoid 
base, that is, upon an only partially psychic and possibly altogether 
different form of being. For lack of empirical data I have neither 
knowledge nor understanding of such forms of being, which are 
commonly called spiritual. From the point of view of science, it is 
immaterial what I may believe on that score, and I must accept my 
ignorance. But insofar as the archetypes act upon me, they are real 
and actual to me, even though I do not know what their real nature 
is. This applies, of course, not only to the archetypes but to the 
nature of the psyche in general. Whatever it may state about itself, it 
will never get beyond itself. All comprehension and all that is 
comprehended is in itself psychic, and to that extent we are 
hopelessly cooped up in an exclusively psychic world. Nevertheless, 
we have good reason to suppose that behind this veil there exists 
the uncomprehended absolute object which affects and influences 
us and to suppose it even, or particularly, in the case of psychic 
phenomena about which no verifiable statements can be made. 
Statements concerning possibility or impossibility are valid only in 



specialized fields; outside those fields they are merely arrogant 
presumptions. 

Prohibited though it may be from an objective point of view to make 
statements out of the blue that is, without sufficient reason there are 
nevertheless some statements which apparently have to be made 
without objective reasons. The justification here is a psychodynamic 
one, of the sort usually termed subjective and regarded as a purely 
personal matter. But that is to commit the mistake of failing to 
distinguish whether the statement really proceeds only from an 
isolated subject, and is prompted by exclusively personal motives, 
or whether it occurs generally and springs from a collectively 
present dynamic pattern. In that case it should not be classed as 
subjective, but as psychologically objective, since an indefinite 
number of individuals find themselves prompted by an inner 
impulse to make an identical statement, or feel a certain view to be 
a vital necessity. Since the archetype is not just an inactive form, but 
a real force charged with a specific energy, it may very well be 
regarded as the causa efficiens of such statements, and be 
understood as the subject of them. In other words, it is not the 
personal human being who is making the statement, but the 
archetype speaking through him. If these statements are stifled or 
disregarded, both medical experience and common knowledge 
demonstrate that psychic troubles are in store. These will appear 
either as neurotic symptoms or, in the case of persons who are 
incapable of neurosis, as collective delusions. 

Archetypal statements are based upon instinctive preconditions 
and have nothing to do with reason; they are neither rationally 
grounded nor can they be banished by rational arguments. They 
have always been part of the world scene representations 
collectives, as Levy-Bruhl rightly called them. Certainly the ego and 
its will have a great part to play in life; but what the ego wills is 
subject in the highest degree to the interference, in ways of which 



the ego is usually unaware, of the autonomy and numinosity of 
archetypal processes. Practical consideration of these processes 
is the essence of religion, insofar as religion can be approached 
from a psychological point of view. 



At this point the fact forces itself on my attention that beside the 
field of reflection there is another equally broad if not broader area 
in which rational understanding and rational modes of 
representation find scarcely anything they are able to grasp. This is 
the realm of Eros. In classical times, when such things were 
properly understood, Eros was considered a god whose divinity 
transcended our human limits, and who therefore could neither be 
comprehended nor represented in anyway. I might, as many before 
me have attempted to do, venture an approach to this daimon, 
whose range of activity extends from the endless spaces of the 
heavens to the dark abysses of hell; but I falter before the task of 
finding the language which might adequately express the 
incalculable paradoxes of love, Eros is a kosmogonos, a creator 
and father-mother of all higher consciousness. I sometimes feel that 
Paul's words 'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of 
angels, and have not love" might well be the first condition of all 
cognition and the quintessence of divinity itself . Whatever the 
learned interpretation may be of the sentence "God is love," the 
words affirm the complexio oppositorum of the Godhead. In my 
medical experience as well as in my own life I have again and again 
been faced with the mystery of love, and have never been able to 
explain what it is. Like Job, I had to 'lay my hand on my mouth. I 
have spoken once, and I will not answer" (Job 40:4 f .) 



Here is the greatest and smallest, the remotest and nearest, the 
highest and lowest, and we cannot discuss one side of it without 
also discussing the other. No language is adequate to this paradox. 
Whatever one can say, no words express the whole. To speak of 
partial aspects is always too much or too little, for only the whole is 
meaningful Love "bears all things" and "endures all things" (i Cor. 
13:7). These words say all there is to be said; nothing can be 
added to them. For we are in the deepest sense the victims and the 
instruments of cosmogonic "love." I put the word in quotation marks 
to indicate that I do not use it in its connotations of desiring, 
preferring, favoring, wishing, and similar feelings, but as something 
superior to the individual, a unified and undivided whole. Being a 
part, man cannot grasp the whole. He is at its mercy. He may 
assent to it, or rebel against it; but he is always caught up by it and 
enclosed within it. He is dependent upon it and is sustained by it. 
Love is his light and his darkness, whose end he cannot see. "Love 
ceases not" whether he speaks with the "tongues of angels," or with 
scientific exactitude traces the life of the cell down to its uttermost 
source. Man can try to name love, showering upon it all the names 
at his command, and still he will involve himself in endless self- 
deceptions. If he possesses a grain of wisdom, he will lay down his 
arms and name the unknown by the more unknown, ignotum per 
ignotius that is, by the name of God. That is a confession of his 
subjection, his imperfection, and his dependence; but at the same 
time a testimony to his freedom to choose between truth and error. 



Retrospect 



WHEN PEOPLE SAY I am wise, or a sage, I cannot accept it. A 
man once dipped a hatful of water from a stream. What did that 
amount to? I am not that stream. I am at the stream, but I do nothing. 
Other people are at the same stream, but most of them find they 
have to do something with it. I do nothing. I never think that I am the 
one who must see to it that cherries grow on stalks. I stand and 
behold, admiring what nature can do. 

There is a fine old story about a student who came to a rabbi and 
said, "In the olden days there were men who saw the face of God. 
Why don't they any more?" The rabbi replied, "Because nowadays 
no one can stoop so low" 

One must stoop a little in order to fetch water from the stream. 

The difference between most people and myself is that for me the 
"dividing walls" are transparent. That is my peculiarity. Others find 
these walls so opaque that they see nothing behind them and 
therefore think nothing is there. To some extent I perceive the 
processes going on in the background, and that gives me an inner 
certainty. People who see nothing have no certainties and can draw 
no conclusions or do not trust them even if they do. I do not know 
what started me off perceiving the stream of life. Probably the 
unconscious itself. Or perhaps my early dreams. They determined 
my course from the beginning. 

Knowledge of processes in the background early shaped my 
relationship to the world. Basically, that relationship was the same 
in my childhood as it is to this day. As a child I felt myself to be 
alone, and I am still, because I know things and must hint at things 



which others apparently know nothing of, and for the most part do 
not want to know. Loneliness does not come from having no people 
about one, but from being unable to communicate the things that 
seem important to oneself, or from holding certain views which 
others find inadmissible. The loneliness began with the experiences 
of my early dreams, and reached its climax at the time I was 
working on the unconscious. If a man knows more than others, he 
becomes lonely. But loneliness is not necessarily inimical to 
companionship, for no one is more sensitive to companionship than 
the lonely man, and companionship thrives only when each 
individual remembers his individuality and does not identify himself 
with others. 

It is important to have a secret, a premonition of things unknown. It 
fills life with something impersonal, a numinosum. A man who has 
never experienced that has missed something important. He must 
sense that he lives in a world which in some respects is mysterious; 
that things happen and can be experienced which remain 
inexplicable; that not everything which happens can be anticipated. 
The unexpected and the incredible belong in this world. Only then is 
life whole. For me the world has from the beginning been infinite 
and ungraspable. 

I have had much trouble getting along with my ideas. There was a 
daimon in me, and in the end its presence proved decisive. It 
overpowered me, and if I was at times ruthless it was because I 
was in the grip of the daimon. I could never stop at anything once 
attained. I had to hasten on, to catch up with my vision. Since my 
contemporaries, understandably, could not perceive my vision, they 
saw only a fool rushing ahead. 

I have offended many people, for as soon as I saw that they did not 
understand me, that was the end of the matter so far as I was 
concerned. I had to move on. I had no patience with people aside 



from my patients. I had to obey an inner law which was imposed on 
me and left me no freedom of choice. Of course I did not always 
obey it. How can anyone live without inconsistency? 

For some people I was continually present and close to them so 
long as they were related to my inner world; but then it might happen 
that I was no longer with them, because there was nothing left which 
would link me to them. I had to learn painfully that people continued 
to exist even when they had nothing more to say to me. Many 
excited in me a feeling of living humanity, but only when they 
appeared within the magic circle of psychology; next moment, when 
the spotlight cast its beam elsewhere, there was nothing to be 
seen. I was able to become intensely interested in many people; but 
as soon as I had seen through them, the magic was gone. In this 
way I made many enemies. A creative person has little power over 
his own life. He is not free. He is captive and driven by his daimon. 

"Shamefully 

A power wrests away the heart from us, 

For the Heavenly Ones each demand sacrifice; 

But if it should be withheld 

Never has that led to good? 

says Holderlin. 

This lack of freedom has been a great sorrow to me. Often I felt as if 
I were on a battlefield, saying, "Now you have fallen, my good 
comrade, but I must go on." For "shamefully a power wrests away 
the heart from us." I am fond of you, indeed I love you, but I cannot 
stay. There is something heart-rending about that. And I myself am 
the victim; I cannot stay. But the daimon manages things so that one 
comes through, and blessed inconsistency sees to it that in flagrant 
contrast to my "disloyalty" I can keep faith in unsuspected measure. 

Perhaps I might say: I need people to a higher degree than others, 



and at the same time much less. When the daimon is at work, one 
is always too close and too far. Only when it is silent can one 
achieve moderation. 

The daimon of creativity has ruthlessly had its way with me. The 
ordinary undertakings I planned usually had the worst of it though 
not always and not everywhere. By way of compensation, I think, I 
am conservative to the bone. I fill my pipe from my grandfather's 
tobacco jar and still keep his alpenstock, topped with a chamois 
horn, which he brought back from Pontresina after having been one 
of the first guests at that newly opened Kurort. 

I am satisfied with the course my life has taken. It has been 
bountiful, and has given me a great deal. How could I ever have 
expected so much? Nothing but unexpected things kept happening 
to me. Much might have been different if I myself had been different. 
But it was as it had to be; for all came about because I am as I am. 
Many things worked out as I planned them to, but that did not always 
prove of benefit to me. But almost everything developed naturally 
and by destiny. I regret many follies which sprang from my 
obstinacy; but without that trait I would not have reached my goal. 
And so I am disappointed and not disappointed. I am disappointed 
with people and disappointed with myself. I have learned amazing 
things from people, and have accomplished more than I expected 
of myself. I cannot form any final judgment because the 
phenomenon of life and the phenomenon of man are too vast. The 
older I have become, the less I have understood or had insight into 
or known about myself. 

I am astonished, disappointed, pleased with myself. I am 
distressed, depressed, rapturous. I am all these things at once, and 
cannot add up the sum. I am incapable of determining ultimate 
worth or worthlessness; I have no judgment about myself and my 
life. There is nothing I am quite sure about. I have no definite 



convictions not about anything, really. I know only that I was born 
and exist, and it seems to me that I have been carried along. I exist 
on the foundation of something I do not know. In spite of all 
uncertainties, I feel a solidity underlying all existence and a 
continuity in my mode of being. 

The world into which we are born is brutal and cruel, and at the 
same time of divine beauty. Which element we think outweighs the 
other, whether meaninglessness or meaning, is a matter of 
temperament. If meaninglessness were absolutely preponderant, 
the meaningfulness of life would vanish to an increasing degree 
with each step in our development. But that is or seems to me not 
the case. Probably, as in all metaphysical questions, both are true: 
Life is or has meaning and meaninglessness. I cherish the anxious 
hope that meaning will preponderate and win the battle. 

When Lao-tzu says: "All are clear, I alone am clouded," he is 
expressing what I now feel in advanced old age. Lao-tzu is the 
example of a man with superior insight who has seen and 
experienced worth and worthlessness, and who at the end of his life 
desires to return into his own being, into the eternal unknowable 
meaning. The archetype of the old man who has seen enough is 
eternally true. At every level of intelligence this type appears, and its 
lineaments are always the same, whether it be an old peasant or a 
great philosopher like Lao-tzu. This is old age, and a limitation. Yet 
there is so much that fills me: plants, animals, clouds, day and night, 
and the eternal in man. The more uncertain I have felt about myself, 
the more there has grown up in me a feeling of kinship with all 
things. In fact it seems to me as if that alienation which so long 
separated me from the world has become transferred into my own 
inner world, and has revealed to me an unexpected unfamiliarity 
with myself. 



Appendix I 



LETTERS FROM FREUD TO JUNG [1] 

Vienna IX, Berggasse 19 
April 16, 1909 

DEAR FRIEND, 

... It is remarkable that on the same evening that I formally adopted 
you as an eldest son, anointing you as my successor and crown 
prince in partibus infidelium that then and there you should have 
divested me of my paternal dignity, and that the divesting seems to 
have given you as much pleasure as investing your person gave 
me. Now I am afraid that I must fall back again into the role of father 
toward you in giving you my views on poltergeist phenomena. I must 
do this because these things are different from what you would like 
to think. 

I do not deny that your comments and your experiment made a 
powerful impression upon me. After your departure I determined to 
make some observations, and here are the results. In my front room 
there are continual creaking noises, from where the two heavy 
Egyptian steles rest on the oak boards of the bookcase, so that's 
obvious. In the second room, where we heard the crash, such 
noises are very rare. At first I was inclined to ascribe some 
meaning to it if the noise we heard so frequently when you were 
here were never heard again after your departure. But since then it 
has happened over and over again, yet never in connection with my 
thoughts and never when I was considering you or your special 
problem. (Not now, either, I add by way of challenge.) The 
phenomenon was soon deprived of all significance for me by 



something else. My credulity, or at least my readiness to believe, 
vanished along with the spell of your personal presence; once 
again, for various inner reasons, it seems to me wholly 

1 Reproduced with the land permission of Ernst Freud, London. 

implausible that anything of the sort should occur. The furniture 
stands before me spiritless and dead, like nature silent and 
godless before the poet after the passing of the gods of Greece. 

I therefore don once more my horn-rimmed paternal spectacles and 
warn my dear son to keep a cool head and rather not understand 
something than make such great sacrifices for the sake of 
understanding. I also shake my wise gray locks over the question of 
psycho-synthesis and think: Well, that is how the young folks are; 
they really enjoy things only when they need not drag us along with 
them, where with our short breath and weary legs we cannot follow. 

Now I shall exercise the privilege of my years to turn loquacious and 
tell you about one more matter between heaven and earth which 
cannot be understood. A few years ago I took it into my head that I 
would die between the ages of 61 and 62, which at that time 
seemed to leave me a decent period of grace. (Today that leaves 
me only eight years still to go.) Shortly afterward I made a trip to 
Greece with my brother, and it was absolutely uncanny to see how 
the number 61, or 60 in conjunction with i and a, kept cropping up 
on anything that had a number, especially on vehicles. I 
conscientiously noted down these occasions. By the time we came 
to Athens, I was feeling depressed. At our hotel we were assigned 
rooms on the second floor, and I hoped I could breathe again at 
least there could be no chance of No. 61 . However, it turned out that 
my room was No. 31 (which, with fatalistic license, I regarded as 
after all half of 61-62). This wilier and nimbler figure proved to be 
even better at dogging me than the first. 



From that day until very recently the number 31 remained faithful to 
me, with a 2 all too readily associated with it. But since I also have 
in my psychic system regions in which I am merely avid for 
knowledge and not at all superstitious, I have attempted to analyze 
this conviction. Here it is. My conviction began in 1899. Two events 
coincided at that time. The first was my writing The Interpretation of 
Dreams (which, you know, is dated ahead to 1900); the second, my 
being assigned a new telephone number, which I have to this day: 
14362. It is easy to establish the link between these two facts: in the 
year 1899, when I wrote The Interpretation of Dreams, I was 43 
years old. What should be more obvious than that the other figures 
in my telephone number were intended to signify the end of my life, 
hence, 61 or 62? Suddenly there appears a method in this 
madness. The superstition that I would die between 61 and 62 turns 
out to be equivalent to the conviction that with the book on dreams I 
had completed my life work, needed to say no more, and could die 
in peace. You will grant that after this analysis it no longer sounds 
so non-sensical. Incidentally, the influence of Wilhelm Fliess plays a 
part in this; the superstitition dates from the year of his attack on 
me. 

Here is another instance where you will find confirmation of the 
specifically Jewish character of my mysticism. Apart from this, I only 
want to say that adventures such as mine with the number 62 can 
be explained by two things. The first is an enormously intensified 
alertness on the part of the unconscious, so that one is led like 
Faust to see a Helen in every woman. The second is the undeniable 
"co-operation of chance," which plays the same role in the 
formation of delusions as somatic co-operation in hysterical 
symptoms or linguistic co-operation in puns. 

I therefore look forward to hearing more about your investigations of 
the spook-complex, my interest being the interest one has in a 



lovely delusion which one does not share oneself. 

With cordial regards to yourself, 
your wife and children, Yours, 

Freud. 

Vienna IX, Berggasse 19 

May 1 

DEAR FRIEND, 

... I know that your deepest inclinations are impelling you toward a 
study of the occult, and do not doubt that you will return home with a 
rich cargo. There is no stopping that, and it is always right for a 
person to follow the biddings of his own impulses. The reputation 
you have won with your Dementia [2] will stand against the charge 
of "mystic" for quite a while. Only don't stay too long away from us in 
those lush tropical colonies; it is necessary to govern at home.... 
With cordial greetings and the hope that you will write me again 
after a shorter interval this time. 

Your faithful 

Freud. 

2. See above, Chap. V, n. 4, p. 149. 

Vienna IX, Berggasse 19 

June 15, 1911 

DEAR FRIEND, 



... In matters of occultism I have become humble ever since the 
great lesson I received from Ferenczi's experiences. [3] I promise 
to believe everything that can be made to seem the least bit 
reasonable. As you know, I do not do so gladly. But my hubris has 
been shattered. I should like to have you and F. acting in 
consonance when one of you is ready to take the perilous step of 
publication, and I imagine that this would be quite compatible with 
complete independence during the progress of the work.... 

Cordial regards to you and the beautiful house 

from Your faithful 

Freud 

3. Cf. Ernest Jones, Life and Work of Sigmund Freud (New York, 1953-57), 
III, pp. 387 f. 



Appendix II 



LETTERS TO EMMA JUNG FROM AMERICA 

(1909) 

September 6, 1909, Monday 

At Prof. Stanley Halts 

Clark University, Worcester 

.... So now we are safely arrived in Worcester! I have to tell you 
about the trip. Last Saturday there was dreary weather in New York. 
All three of us were afflicted with diarrhea and had pretty bad 
stomach aches.... In spite of feeling physically miserable and in 
spite of not eating anything, I went to the paleontological collection, 
where all the old monsters, the Lord God's anxiety dreams of 
Creation, are to be seen. The collection is absolutely unique for the 
phylogenesis of Tertiary mammals. I cannot possibly tell you all I 
saw there. Then I met Jones, who had just arrived from Europe. 
Around half-past three we took the elevated and rode from 42nd 
Street to the piers. There we boarded a fantastically huge structure 
of a steamer that had some five white decks. We took cabins, and 
our vessel set sail from the West River around the point of 
Manhattan with all its tremendous skyscrapers, then up the East 
River under the Brooklyn and Manhattan Bridges, right through the 
endless tangle of tugs, ferryboats, etc., and through the Sound 
behind Long Island. It was damp and chilly, we had belly aches and 
diarrhea and were suffering from hunger besides, so we crawled 
into bed. Early on Sunday morning we were already on land in Fall 
River City, where in the rain we took the train to Boston and 
immediately went on to Worcester. While we were en route, the 



weather cleared. The countryside was utterly charming, low hills, a 
great deal of forest, swamp, small lakes, innumerable huge erratic 
rocks, tiny villages with wooden houses, painted red, green, or gray, 
with windows framed in white (Holland!), tucked away under large, 
beautiful trees. By 11:30 we were in Worcester. We found the 
Standish Hotel a very pleasant place to stay, and cheap also, "on 
the American plan," as they say here that is, with board. At six in the 
evening, after a well-deserved rest, we called on Stanley Hall. He is 
a refined, distinguished old gentleman close on seventy who 
received us with the kindest hospitality. He has a plump, jolly, good- 
natured, and extremely ugly wife who, however, serves wonderful 
food. She promptly took over Freud and me as her "boys" and plied 
us with delicious nourishment and noble wine, so that we began 
visibly to recover. We slept very well that night in the hotel, and this 
morning we have moved over to the Halls'. The house is furnished in 
an incredibly amusing fashion, everything roomy and comfortable. 
There is a splendid studio filled with thousands of books, and boxes 
of cigars everywhere. Two pitch-black Negroes in dinner jackets, 
the extreme of grotesque solemnity, perform as servants. Carpets 
everywhere, all the doors open, even the bathroom door and the 
front door; people going in and out all over the place; all the 
windows extend down to the floor. The house is surrounded by an 
English lawn, no garden fence. Half the city (about a hundred and 
eighty thousand inhabitants) stands in a regular forest of old trees 
which shade all the streets. Most of the houses are smaller than 
ours, charmingly surrounded by flowers and flowering shrubs, 
overgrown with Virginia creeper and wisteria; everything well 
tended, clean, cultivated, and exceedingly peaceful and congenial. 
A wholly different America! This is what they call New England. The 
city was founded as long ago as 1690, so it is very old. Much 
prosperity. The university, richly endowed, is small but 
distinguished, and has a real, though plain, elegance. This morning 
was the opening session. Prof. X had first turn, with boring stuff. We 



soon decamped and took a delightful walk through the outskirts of 
the town, which is surrounded on all sides by small and minute 
lakes and cool woods. We were ecstatic over the peaceful beauty 
of the surroundings. It is refreshing and reviving after the life in New 
York.... 

Clark University 

Worcester, Massachusetts 

Wednesday, September 8, 1909 

... The people here are all exceedingly amiable and on a decent 
cultural level. We are beautifully taken care of at the Halls' and daily 
recovering from the exertions of New York. My stomach is almost 
back to normal now; from time to time there is a little twitch, but 
aside from that, my general health is excellent. Yesterday Freud 
began the lectures and received great applause. We are gaining 
ground here, and our following is growing slowly but surely. Today I 
had a talk about psychoanalysis with two highly cultivated elderly 
ladies who proved to be very well informed and free-thinking. I was 
greatly surprised, since I had prepared myself for opposition. 
Recently we had a large garden party with fifty people present, in 
the course of which I surrounded myself with five ladies. I was even 
able to make jokes in English though what English! Tomorrow 
comes my first lecture; all my dread of it has vanished, since the 
audience is harmless and merely eager to hear new things, which is 
certainly what we can supply them with. It is said that we shall be 
awarded honorary doctorates by the university next Saturday, with a 
great deal of pomp and circumstance. In the evening there will be a 
"formal reception." Today's letter has to be short, since the Halls 
have invited some people for five o'clock to meet us. We have also 
been interviewed by the Boston Evening Transcript. In fact we are 
the men of the hour here. It is very good to be able to spread 



oneself in this way once in a while. I can feel that my libido is 
gulping it in with vast enjoyment... 

Clark University 

Worcester ', Mass. 

September 24, 1909 

... Last night there was a tremendous amount of ceremony and 
fancy dress, with all sorts of red and black gowns and gold-tasseled 
square caps. In a grand and festive assemblage I was appointed 
Doctor of Laws honoris causa and Freud likewise. Now I may place 
an L.L.D. after my name. Impressive, what?... Today Prof. M. drove 
us by automobile out to lunch at a beautiful lake. The landscape 
was utterly lovely. This evening there is one more "private 
conference" in Hall's house on the "psychology of sex." Our time is 
dreadfully crammed. The Americans are really masters at that; they 
hardly leave one time to catch one's breath. Right now I am rather 
worn out from all the fabulous things we have been through, and am 
longing for the quiet of the mountains. My head is spinning. Last 
night at the awarding of the doctorate I had to deliver an impromptu 
talk before some three hundred persons.... Freud is in seventh 
heaven, and I am glad with all my heart to see him so.... 

I am looking forward enormously to getting back to the sea again, 
where the overstimulated psyche can recover in the presence of 
that infinite peace and spaciousness. Here one is in an almost 
constant whirlwind. But I have, thank God, completely regained my 
capacity for enjoyment, so that I can look forward to everything with 
zest. Now I am going to take everything that comes along by storm, 
and then I shall settle down again, satiated... 

Albany, N. Y. 



September 18, 

... Two more days before departure! Everything is taking place in a 
whirl. Yesterday I stood upon a bare rocky peak nearly 5600 feet 
high, in the midst of tremendous virgin forests, looking far out into 
the blue infinities of America and shivering to the bone in the icy 
wind, and today I am in the midst of the metropolitan bustle of 
Albany, the capital of the State of New York! The hundred thousand 
enormously deep impressions I am taking back with me from this 
wonderland cannot be described with the pen. Everything is too big, 
too immeasurable. Something that has gradually been dawning 
upon me in the past few days is the recognition that here an ideal 
po- tentiality of life has become reality. Men are as well off here as 
the culture permits; women badly off. We have seen things here that 
in- spire enthusiastic admiration, and things that make one ponder 
social evolution deeply. As far as technological culture is 
concerned, we lag miles behind Ajnerica. But all that is frightfully 
costly and already carries the germ of the end in itself. I must tell you 
a great, great deal. I shall never forget the experiences of this 
journey. Now we are tired of America. Tomorrow morning we are off 
to New York, and on September21 we sail!... 

368 

Appendix II 

Steamer Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse 
North German Lloyd 

BREMEN 

September 22, 1909 

... Yesterday morning I shook the dust o America from my feet, with 



a light heart and an aching head, for the Y/s plied us with won- derful 
champagne.... As far as abstinence goes, I've arrived on very shaky 
ground indeed, in point of principle, so that I am honorably 
withdrawing from my various teetotal societies. I confess myself an 
honest sinner and only hope that I can endure the sight of a glass of 
wine without emotion an undrunk glass, of course. That is always 
so; only the forbidden attracts. I think I must not forbid myself too 
much.... 

Well, then, at ten o'clock yesterday morning we sailed, to our left the 
towering whitish and reddish heaven-storming towers of New York 
City, to our right the smoking chimneys, docks, etc., of Hoboken. 
The morning was misty; New York soon disappeared, and before 
long the big swells of the ocean began. At the fireship we dropped 
the American pilot and then sailed on out "into the mournful waste- 
land of the sea." It is, as always, of cosmic grandeur and simplicity, 
compelling silence; for what has man to say here, especially at night 
when the ocean is alone with the starry sky? One looks out silendy, 
surrendering all self-importance, and many old sayings and images 
scurry through the mind; a low voice says something about the age- 
oldness and infinitude of the "far-swelling, murmurous sea," of "the 
waves of the sea and of love," of Leukothea, the lovely goddess 
who appears in the foam of the seething waves to travel-weary 
Odysseus and gives him the pearly veil which saves him from 
Poseidon's storm. The sea is like music; it has all the dreams of the 
soul within itself and sounds them over. The beauty and grandeur of 
the sea consists in our being forced down into the fruitful 
bottomlands of our own psyches, where we confront and re-create 
ourselves in the animation of the "mournful wasteland of the sea." 
Now we are still worn out from the "torment of these last days." We 
brood over the past few months, and the unconscious has a lot of 
work to do, putting in order all the things America has churned up 
within us. ... 



Steamer Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse 

North German Lloyd 

BREMEN 

September 25, 1909 

.... Yesterday there was a storm that lasted all day until nearly 
midnight. Most of the day I stood up front, under the bridge, on a 
protected and elevated spot, and admired the magnificent 
spectacle as the mountainous waves rolled up and poured a 
whirling cloud of foam over the ship. The ship began to roll fearfully, 
and several times we were soaked by a salty shower. It turned cold, 
and we went in for a cup of tea. Inside, however, the t>rain flowed 
down the spinal canal and tried to come out again from under the 
stomach. Conse- quently I retired to my bed, where I soon felt fine 
again and later was able to consume a pleasant supper. Outside 
from time to time a wave thundered against the ship. The objects in 
my cabin had all come to life: the sofa cushion crawled about on the 
floor in the semi- darkness; a recumbent shoe sat up, looked 
around in astonishment, and then shuffled quietly off under the sofa; 
a standing shoe turned wearily on its side and followed its mate. 
Now the scene changed. I realized that the shoes had gone under 
the sofa to fetch my bag and brief case. The whole company 
paraded over to join the big trunk under the bed. One sleeve of my 
shirt on the sofa waved longingly after them, and from inside the 
chests and drawers came rumbles and rattles. Suddenly there was 
a terrible crash under my floor, a rattling, clattering, and tinkling. 
One of the kitchens is underneath me. There, at one blow, five 
hundred plates had been awakened from their deathlike torpor and 
with a single bold leap had put a sudden end to their dreary 
existence as slaves. In all the cabins roundabout, unspeakable 
groans betrayed the secrets of the menu. I slept like a top, and this 



morning the wind is beginning to blow from another side.. 



Appendix III 

LETTER TO EMMA JUNG 

FROM NORTH AFRICA 

(1920) 

Grand Hotel Sousse 

Sousse Monday, March 15, 1920 

This Africa is incredible 

... Unfortunately I cannot write coherently to you, for it is all too much. 
Only sidelights. After cold, heavy weather at sea, a sparkling 
morning in Algiers. Bright houses and streets, dark green clumps of 
trees, tall palms' crowns rising among them. White burnooses, red 
fezzes, and among these the yellow uniforms of the Tirailleurs 
d'Afrique, the red of the Spahis, then the Botanical Gardens, an en- 
chanted tropical forest, an Indian vision, holy acvatta trees with 
gigantic aerial roots like monsters, fantastic dwellings of the gods, 
enormous in extent, heavy, dark green foliage rustling in the sea 
wind. 

Then thirty hours by rail to Tunis. The Arab city is classical antiquity 
and Moorish middle ages, Granada and the fairy tale of Baghdad. 
You no longer think of yourself; you are dissolved in this potpourri 
which cannot be evaluated, still less described: a Roman column 
stands here as part of a wall; an old Jewess of unspeakable 
ugliness goes by in white baggy breeches; a crier with a load of 
burnooses pushes through the crowd, shouting in gutturals that 
might have come straight from the canton of Zurich; a patch of deep 



blue sky, a snow-white mosque dome; a shoemaker busily stitching 
away at shoes in a small vaulted niche, with a hot, dazzling patch of 
sunlight on the mat before him; blind musicians with a (hum and tiny 
three-stringed lute; a beggar who consists of nothing but rags; 
smoke from oil cakes, and swarms of flies; up above, on a white 
minaret in the blissful ether, a muezzin sings the midday chant; be- 
low, a cool, shady, colonnaded yard with horseshoe portal framed 
in glazed tiles; on die wall a mangy cat lies in thesun;ia coming and 
going of red, white, yellow, blue, brown mantles, white turbans, red 
fezzes, uniforms, faces ranging from white and light yellow to deep 
black; a shuffling of yellow and red slippers, a noiseless scurrying of 
naked black feet, and so on and so on. 

In the morning the great god rises and fills both horizons with his joy 
and power, and all living things obey him. At night the moon is so 
silvery and glows with such divine clarity that no one can doubt the 
existence of Astarte. 

Between Algiers and Tunis He 550 miles of African soil, towering 
up to the noble and spreading shapes of the great Atlas range, 
wide valleys and plateaus bursting with grapes and grain, dark 
green forests of cork oak. Today Horus rose out of distant, pale 
mountains over an unending green and brown plain, and from tie 
desert there sprang up a mighty wind which blew out to the dark 
blue sea. On rolling, gray-green hills yellow-brown remains of whole 
Roman cities, small flocks of black goats grazing around them, 
nearby a Bedouin camp with black tents, camels, and donkeys. The 
train runs into a camel which cannot make up its mind to get off the 
tracks; the beast is killed; there is a great running up, shrieking, and 
gesticulating of white-clad figures; and always the sea, now deep 
blue, now hurting the eyes with its glitter in the sunlight. Out of olive 
groves and palms and hedges of giant cactus floating in the 
flickering, sun-shot air rises a snow-white city with divinely white 
domes and towers, gloriously spread out over a hill. Then comes 



Sousse, with white walls and towers, the harbor below; beyond the 
harbor wall the deep blue sea, and in the port lies the sailing ship 
with two lateen sails which I once painted! ! ! ! 

You stumble over Roman remains; with my cane I dug a piece of 
Roman pottery out of the ground. 

This is all nothing but miserable stammering; I do not know what 
Africa is really saying to me, but it speaks. Imagine a tremendous 
sun, air clear as in the highest mountains, a sea bluer than any you 
have ever seen, all colors of incredible power. In the markets you 
can still buy the amphorae of antiquity things like that and the 
moon!!!... 



Appendix IV 



RICHARD WILHELM 

I first met Richard Wilhelm at Count Keyserling's during a meet- ing 
of the "School of Wisdom" in Darmstadt That was in the early 
twenties. In 1923 we invited him to Zurich and he spoke on the I 
Ching I at the Psychology Club. 

Even before meeting him I had been interested in Oriental philoso- 
phy, and around 1920 had begun experimenting with the I Ching. 
One summer in Bollingen I resolved to make an all-out attack on the 
riddle of this book. Instead of traditional stalks of yarrow required by 
the classical method, I cut myself a bunch of reeds. I would sit for 
hours on the ground beneath the hundred-year-old pear tree, the I 
Ching beside me, practicing the technique by referring the result- 
ant oracles to one another in an interplay of questions and answers. 
All sorts of undeniably remarkable results emerged meaningful con- 
nections with my own thought processes which I could not explain to 
myself. 

The only subjective intervention in this experiment consists in the 
experimenter's arbitrarily that is, without counting dividing up the 
bundle of forty-nine stalks at a single swoop. He does not know how 
many stalks are contained in each bundle, and yet the result 
depends upon their numerical relationship. All other manipulations 
proceed mechanically and leave no room for interference by the 
will. If a psychic causal connection is present at all, it can only 
consist in the chance division of the bundle (or, in the other method, 
the chance fall of the coins). 

During the whole of those summer holidays I was preoccupied with 



the question: Are the I Chings answers meaningful or not? If 

1 The I Ching, or Book of Changes: English trans, by Cary F. Baynes, from 
the German version of R. Wilhelm (New York and London, 1950). The origins 
of this ancient Chinese book of wisdom and oracles go back to the fourth 
millennium B.C. they are, how does the connection between the psychic 
and the physical sequence of events come about? Time and again I en- 
countered amazing coincidences which seemed to suggest the idea of an 
acausal parallelism (a synchronicity, as I later called it). So fascinated was I 
by these experiments that I altogether forgot to take notes, which I afterward 
greatly regretted. Later, howe\er, when I often used to carry out the 
experiment with my patients, it became quite clear that a significant number 
of answers did indeed hit the mark. I remember, for example, the case of a 
young man with a strong mother complex. He wanted to marry, and had 
made the ac- quaintance of a seemingly suitable girl. However, he felt 
uncertain, fearing that under the influence of his complex he might once 
more find himself in the power of an overwhelming mother. I conducted the 
experiment with him. The text of his hexagram read: "The maiden is 
powerful. One should not marry such a maiden". 

In the mid-thirties I met the Chinese philosopher Hu Shih. I asked 
him his opinion of the I Ching, and received the reply: "Oh, that's 
nothing but an old collection of magic spells, without signifi- cance" 
He had had no experience with it or so he said. Only once, he 
remembered, had he come across it in practice. One day on a walk 
with a friend, the friend had told him about his unhappy love affair. 
They were just passing by a Taoist temple. As a joke, he had said 
to his friend: "Here you can consult the oracle!" No sooner said than 
done. They went into the temple together and asked the priest for 
an I Ching oracle. But he had not the slightest faith in this nonsense. 

I asked him whether the oracle had been correct. Whereupon he 
replied reluctantly, "Oh yes, it was, of course . . ".Remembering the 
well-known story of the "good friend" who does everything one does 
not wish to do oneself, I cautiously asked him whether he had not 
profited by this opportunity. "Yes," he replied, "as a joke I asked a 



question too." 

"And did the oracle give you a sensible answer?" I asked. 

He hesitated. "Oh well, yes, if you wish to put it that way".The 
subject obviously made him uncomfortable. 

A few years after my first experiments with the reeds, the I Ching 
was published with Wilhelm's commentary. I instantly obtained the 
book, and found to my gratification that Wilhelm took much the 
same view of the meaningful connections as I had. But he knew the 
entire literature and could therefore fill in the gaps which had been 
outside my competence. When Wilhelm came to Zurich, I had the 
opportunity to discuss the matter with him at length, and we talked a 
great deal about Chinese philosophy and religion. What he told me, 
out of his wealth of knowledge of the Chinese mentality, clarified 
some of the most difficult problems that the European unconscious 
had posed for me. On the other hand, what I had to tell him about 
the results of my investigations of the unconscious caused him no 
little surprise; for he recognized in them things he had considered to 
be the exclusive possession of the Chinese philosophical tradition. 

As a young man Wilhelm had gone to China in the service of a 
Christian mission, and there the mental world of the Orient had 
opened its doors wide to him. Wilhelm was a truly religious spirit, 
with an unclouded and farsighted view of things. He had the gift of 
being able to listen without bias to the revelations of a foreign 
mentality, and to accomplish that miracle of empathy which enabled 
him to make the intellectual treasures of China accessible to 
Europe. He was deeply influenced by Chinese culture, and once 
said to me, "It is a great satisfaction to me that I never baptized a 
single Chi- nese!" In spite of his Christian background, he could not 
help recog- nizing the logic and clarity of Chinese thought. 
"Influenced" is sot quite the word to describe its effect upon him; it 



had overwhelmed and assimilated him. His Christian views 
receded into the back- ground, but did not vanish entirely; they 
formed a kind of mental reservation, a moral proviso that was later 
to have fateful conse- quences. 

In China he had the good fortune to meet a sage of the old school 
whom the revolution had driven out of the interior. This sage, Lau 
Nai Suan, introduced him to Chinese yoga philosophy and the psy- 
chology of the I Ching. To the collaboration of these two men we 
owe the edition of the I Ching with its excellent commentary. For the 
first time this prof oundest work of the Orient was introduced to the 
West in a living and comprehensible fashion. I consider this 
publica-tion Wilhelm's most important work. Clear and 
unmistakably Western as his mentality was, in his I Ching 
commentary he manifested a de-gree of adaptation to Chinese 
psychology which is altogether un- matched. 

When the last page of the translation was finished and the first 
printer's proofs were coming in, the old master Lau Nai Suan died. 
It was as if his work were completed and he had delivered the last 
message of the old, dying China to Europe. And Wilhelm had been 
the perfect disciple, a fulfillment of the wish-dream of the sage. 

Wilhelm, when 1 met him, seemed completely Chinese, in outward 
manner as much as in his way of writing and speaking. The Oriental 
point of view and ancient Chinese culture had penetrated him 
through and through. Upon his arrival in Europe, he entered the 
faculty of the China Institute in Frankfurt am Main. Both in his 
teaching work and in his lectures to laymen, however, he seemed to 
feel the pressure of the European spirit. Christian views and forms 
of thought moved steadily into the foreground. I went to hear some 
lectures of his and they turned out to be scarcely any different from 
conventional sermons. 



This reversion to the past seemed to me somewhat unreflective and 
therefore dangerous. I saw it as a reassimilation to the West, and 
felt that as a result of it Wilhelm must come into conflict with him- 
self. Since it was, so I thought, a passive assimilation, that is to say, 
a succumbing to the influence of the environment, there was the 
danger of a relatively unconscious conflict, a clash between his 
Western and Eastern psyche. If, as I assumed, the Christian attitude 
had originally given way to the influence of China, the reverse might 
well be tak- ing place now: the European element might be gaining 
the upper hand over the Orient once again. If such a process takes 
place with- out a strong, conscious attempt to come to terms with it, 
the un- conscious conflict can seriously affect the physical state of 
health. 

After attending the lectures, I attempted to call his attention to the 
danger threatening him. My words to him were: "My dear Wilhelm, 
please do not take this amiss, but I have the feeling that the West is 
taking possession of you again, and that you are becoming 
unfaithful to your mission of transmitting the East to the West". 

He replied, "I think you are right something here is overpowering 
me. But what can be done?" 

A few years later Wilhelm was staying as a guest in my house, and 
came down with an attack of amoebic dysentery. It was a disease 
he had had twenty years before. His condition grew worse during 
the following months, and then I heard that Wilhelm was in the 
hospital. I went to Frankfurt to visit him, and found a very sick man. 
The doctors had not yet given up hope, and Wilhelm, too, spoke of 
plans he wished to carry out when he got well. I shared his hopes, 
but had my forebodings. What he confided to me at the time 
confirmed my conjectures. In his dreams, he revisited the endless 
stretches of deso- late Asiatic steppes the China he had left 
behind. He was groping his way back to the problem which China 



had set before him, the answer to which had been blocked for him 
by the West. By now he was conscious of this question, but had 
been unable to find a solution. His illness dragged on for months. 

A few weeks before his death, when I had had no news from him for 
a considerable time, I was awakened, just as I was on the point of 
falling asleep, by a vision. At my bed stood a Chinese in a dark 
blue gown, hands crossed in the sleeves. He bowed low before me, 
as if he wished to give me a message. I knew what it signified. The 
vision was extraordinarily vivid. Not only did I see every wrinkle in 
the man's face, but every thread in the fabric of his gown. 

Wilhelm's problem might also be regarded as a conflict between 
consciousness and the unconscious, which in his case took the 
form of a clash between West and East. I believed I understood his 
situation, since I myself had the same problem as he and knew 
what it meant to be involved in this conflict. It is true that even at our 
last meeting Wilhelm did not speak plainly. Though he was intensely 
interested when I introduced the psychological point of view, his 
interest lasted only so long as my remarks concerned objective 
matters such as meditation or questions posed by the psychology 
of religion. So far, so good. But whenever I attempted to touch the 
actual problem of his inner conflict, I immediately sensed a drawing 
back, an in- ward shutting himself off because such matters went 
straight to the bone. This is a phenomenon I have observed in many 
men of im- portance. There is, as Goethe puts it in Faust, an 
"untrodden, un- treadable" region whose precincts cannot and 
should not be entered by force; a destiny which will brook no human 
intervention. 



Appendix V 

Septem Sermones ad Mortuos 

(1916) 

Jung allowed Septem Sermones ad Mortuos (Seven Sermons to 
the Dead) to be published privately as a booklet. He occasionally 
gave copies to friends; it was never obtainable at bookstores. Later 
he described it as a sin of his youth and regretted it. 

The language is more or less in the style of the Red Book. But 
compared with the endless conversations with inner figures in the 
Red Book, the Seven Sermons form a self-contained whole. They 
convey an impression, if only a fragmentary one, of what Jung went 
through in the years 1913-1917, and of what he was bringing to 
birth. 

The Sermons contain hints or anticipations of ideas that were to 
figure later in his scientific writings, more particularly concerning the 
polaristic nature of the psyche, of life in general, and of all psycho- 
logical statements. It was their thinking in paradoxes that drew Jung 
to the Gnostics. That is why he identifies himself here with the 
Gnostic writer Basilides (early second century A.D.) and even takes 
over some of his terminology for example, God as Abraxas. It was a 
deliberate game of mystification. 

Jung consented to the publication of Seven Sermons in his Mem- 
oirs only hesitantly and only "for the sake of honesty." He never 
disclosed the key to the anagram at the end of the book. 

The Seven Sermons to the Dead written by Basilides in Alexandria, 
the City where the East toucheth the West 



Sermo 1 

The dead came back from Jerusalem, where they found not what 
they sought. They prayed me let them in and besought my word, 
and thus I began my teaching. 

Harken: I begin with nothingness. Nothingness is the same as 
fullness. In infinity full is no better than empty. Nothingness is both 
empty and full. As well might ye say anything else of nothingness, as 
for instance, white is it, or black, or again, it is not, or it is. A thing 
that is infinite and eternal hath no qualities, since it hath all qualities. 

This nothingness or fullness we name the PLEROMA. Therein both 
thinking and being cease, since the eternal and infinite possess no 
qualities. In it no being is, for he then would be distinct from the 
pleroma, and would possess qualities which would distinguish him 
as something distinct from the pleroma. 

In the pleroma there is nothing and everything. It is quite fruitless to 
think about the pleroma, for this would mean self-dissolution. 

CRE ATURA is not in the pleroma, but in itself. The pleroma is both 
beginning and end of created beings. It pervadeth them, as the light 
of the sun everywhere pervadeth the air. Although the pleroma 
pervadeth altogether, yet hath created being no share thereof, just 
a s a wholly transparent body becometh neither light nor dark 
through the light which pervadeth it. We are, however, the pleroma 
itself, for we are a part of the eternal and infinite. But we have no 
share thereof, as we are from the pleroma infinitely removed; not 
spirit- ually or temporally, but essentially, since we are distinguished 
from the pleroma in our essence as creatura, which is confined 
within time and space. 



Yet because we are parts of the pleroma, the pleroma is also in us. 
Even in the smallest point is the pleroma endless, eternal, and 
entire, since small and great are qualities which are contained in it. 
It is that nothingness which is everywhere whole and continuous. 
Only figura- tively, therefore, do I speak of created being as a part 
of the pleroma. Because, actually, the pleroma is nowhere divided, 
since it is noth- ingness. We are also the whole pleroma, because, 
figuratively, the pleroma is the smallest point (assumed only, not 
existing) in us and the boundless firmament about us. But 
wherefore, then, do we speak of the pleroma at all, since it is thus 
everything and nothing? 

I speak of it to make a beginning somewhere, and also to free you 
from the delusion that somewhere, either without or within, there 
standeth something fixed, or in some way established, from the 
beginning. Every so-called fixed and certain thing is only relative. 
That alone is fixed and certain which is subject to change. 

What is changeable, however, is creatura. Therefore is it the one 
thing which is fixed and certain; because it hath qualities: it is even 
quality itself. 

The question ariseth: How did creatura originate? Created beings 
came to pass, not creatura; since created being is the very quality 
of the pleroma, as much as non-creation which is the eternal death. 
In all times and places is creation, in all times and places is death. 
The pleroma hath all, distinctiveness and non-distinctiveness. 

Distinctiveness is creatura. It is distinct. Distinctiveness is its es- 
sence, and therefore it distinguished. Therefore man discriminateth 
because his nature is distinctiveness. Wherefore also he 
distinguish- eth qualities of the pleroma which are not. He 
distinguished them out of his own nature. Therefore must he speak 
of qualities of the pleroma which are not. 



What use, say ye, to speak of it? Saidst thou not thyself, there is no 
profit in thinking upon the pleroma? 

That said I unto you, to free you from the delusion that we are able 
to think about the pleroma. When we distinguish qualities of the 
pleroma, we are speaking from the ground of our own 
distinctiveness and concerning our own distinctiveness. But we 
have said nothing concerning the pleroma. Concerning our own 
distinctiveness, how- ever, it is needful to speak, whereby we may 
distinguish ourselves enough. Our very nature is distinctiveness. If 
we are not true to this nature we do not distinguish ourselves 
enough. Therefore must we make distinctions of qualities. 

What is the harm, ye ask, in not distinguishing oneself? If we do not 
distinguish, we get beyond our own nature, away from creatura. We 
fall into indistinctiveness, which is the other quality of the pleroma. 
We fall into the pleroma itself and cease to be creatures. We are 
given over to dissolution in the nothingness. This is the death of the 
creature. Therefore we die in such measure as we do not 
distinguish. Hence the natural striving of the creature goeth towards 
distinctiveness, fighteth against primeval, perilous sameness. This 
is called the PBINCIPIUM INDIVIDUAHONIS. This principle is the 
essence of the creature. From this you can see why 
indistinctiveness and non- distinction are a great danger for the 
creature. 

We must, therefore, distinguish the qualities of the pleroma. The 
qualities are PAIBS OF OPPOSITES, such as 

The Effective and the Ineffective. 

Fullness and Emptiness. 

Living and Dead. 



Difference and Sameness. 

Light and Darkness. 

The Hot and the Cold. 

Force and Matter. 

Time and Space. 

Good and Evil. 

Beauty and Ugliness. 

The One and the Many. etc. 

The pairs of opposites are qualities of the pleroma which are not, 
because each balanceth each. As we are the pleroma itself, we 
also have all these qualities in us. Because the very ground of our 
nature is distinctiveness, therefore we have these qualities in the 
name and sign of distinctiveness, which meaneth 

1. These qualities are distinct and separate in us one from the other; 
therefore they are not balanced and void, but are effective. Thus are we the 
victims of the pairs of opposites. The pleroma is rent in us. 

2. The qualities belong to the pleroma, and only in the name and sign of 
distinctiveness can and must we possess or li\e them. We must distinguish 
ourselves from qualities. In the pleroma they are balanced and void; in us 
not. Being distinguished from them delivereth us. 

When we strive after the good or the beautiful, we thereby forget our 
own nature, which is distinctiveness, and we are delivered over to 
the qualities of the pleroma, which are pairs of opposites. We labor 
to attain to the good and the beautiful, yet at the same time we also 



lay hold of the evil and the ugly, since in the pleroma these are one 
with the good and the beautiful. When, however, we remain true to 
our own nature, which is distinctiveness, we distinguish ourselves 
from the good and the beautiful, and, therefore, at the same time, 
from the evil and the ugly. And thus we fall not into the pleroma, 
namely, into nothingness and dissolution. 

Thou sayest, ye object, that difference and sameness are also 
qualities of the pleroma. How would it be, then, if we strive after 
difference? Are we, in so doing, not true to our own nature? And 
must we none the less be given over to sameness when we strive 
after difference? 

Ye must not forget that the pleroma hath no qualities. We create 
them through thinking. If, therefore, ye strive after difference or 
'sameness, or any qualities whatsoever, ye pursue thoughts which 
flow to you out of the pleroma; thoughts, namely, concerning non- 
existing qualities of the pleroma. Inasmuch as ye run after these 
thoughts, ye fall again into the pleroma, and reach difference and 
sameness at the same time. Not your thinking, but your being, is 

distinctiveness. Therefore not after difference, as ye think it, must ye 
strive; but after YOUR OWN BEING. At bottom, therefore, there is 
only one striving, namely, the striving after your own being. If ye had 
this striving ye would not need to know anything about the pleroma 
and its qualities, and yet would ye come to your right goal by virtue 
of your own being. Since, however, thought estrangeth from being, 
that knowledge must I teach you wherewith ye may be able to hold 
your thought in leash. 

Sermo II 

In the night the dead stood along the wall and cried: 



We would have knowledge of god. Where is god? Is god dead? 

God is not dead. Now, as ever, he liveth. God is creatura, for he is 
something definite, and therefore distinct from the pleroma. God is 
quality of the pleroma, and everything which I said of creatura also 
is true concerning him. 

He is distinguished, however, from created beings through this, that 
he is more indefinite and indeterminable than they. He is less 
distinct than created beings, since the ground of his being is 
effective fullness. Only in so far as he is definite and distinct is he 
creatura, and in like measure is he the manifestation of the effective 
fullness of the pleroma. 

Everything which we do not distinguish falleth into the pleroma and 
is made void by its opposite. If, therefore, we do not distinguish 
god, effective fullness is for us extinguished. 

Moreover god is the pleroma itself, as likewise each smallest point 
in the created and uncreated is the pleroma itself. 

Effective void is the nature of the devil. God and devil are the first 
manifestations of nothingness, which we call the pleroma. It is in- 
different whether the pleroma is or is not, since in everything it is 
balanced and void. Not so creatura. In so far as god and devil are 
creatura they do not extinguish each other, but stand one against 
the other as effective opposites. We need no proof of their 
existence. It is enough that we must always be speaking of them. 
Even if both were not, creatura, of its own essential distinctiveness, 
would forever dis- tinguish them anew out of the pleroma. 

Everything that discrimination taketh out of the pleroma is a pair of 
opposites. To god, therefore, always belongeth the devil. 



This inseparability is as close and, as your own life hath made you 
see, as indissoluble as the pleroma itself. Thus it is that both stand 
very close to the pleroma, in which all opposites are extinguished 
and joined. 

God and devil are distinguished by the qualities fullness and 
emptiness, generation and destruction. EFFECTIVENESS is 
common to both. Effectiveness joineth them. Effectiveness, 
therefore, stahdeth above both; is a god above god, since in its 
effect it uniteth fullness and emptiness. 

This is a god whom ye knew not, for mankind forgot it. We name it 
by its name ABF?AXAS. It is more indefinite still than god and devil. 

That god may be distinguished from it, we name god HELIOS or 
Sun. Abraxas is effect. Nothing standeth opposed to it but the 
ineffec-tive; hence its effective nature freely unfoldeth itself. The 
ineffective is not, therefore resisteth not. Abraxas standeth above 
the sun and above the devil. It is improbable probability, unreal 
reality. Had the pleroma a being, Abraxas would be its 
manifestation. It is the effective itself, not any particular effect, but 
effect in general. 

It is unreal reality, because it hath no definite effect. 

It is also creatura, because it is distinct from the pleroma. 

The sun hath a definite effect, and so hath the devil. Wherefore do 
they appear to us more effective than indefinite Abraxas. 

It is force, duration, change. 

The dead now raised a great tumult, for they were Christians. 

Sermo III 



Like mists arising from a marsh, the dead came near and cried: 
Speak further unto us concerning the supreme god. 

Hard to know is the deity of Abraxas. Its power is the greatest, 
because man perceiveth it not. From the sun he draweth the sum- 
mum bonum; from the devil the inftrnum mdlum; but from Abraxas 
LIFE, altogether indefinite, the mother of good and evil. 

Smaller and weaker life seemeth to be than the summum bonum; 
wherefore is it also hard to conceive that Abraxas transcendeth 
even the sun in power, who is himself the radiant source of all the 
force of life. 

Abraxas is the sun, and at the same time the eternally sucking 
gorge of the void, the belittling and dismembering devil. 

The power of Abraxas is twofold; but ye see it not, because for your 
eyes the warring opposites of this power are extinguished, 

What the god-sun speaketh is life. 

What the devil speaketh is death. 

But Abraxas speaketh that hallowed and accursed word which is 
life and death at the same time. 

Abraxas begetteth truth and lying, good and evil, light and darkness, 
in the same word and in the same act. Wherefore is Abraxas 
terrible. 

It is splendid as the lion in the instant he striketh down his victim. It 
is beautiful as a day of spring. It is the great Pan himself and also 
the small one. It is Priapos. 



It is the monster of the under-worid, 

a thousand-armed polyp, 

coiled knot of winged serpents, frenzy. 

It is the hermaphrodite of the earliest beginning. 

It is the lord of the toads and frogs, 

which li\e in the water and go 

up on the land, whose chorus ascendeth 

at noon and at midnight. 

It is abundance that seeketh union with emptiness. 

It is holy begetting. 

It is lo\e and love's murder. 

It is the saint and his betrayer. 

It is the brightest light of day and 

the darkest night of madness. 

To look upon it, is blindness. 

To know it, is sickness. 

To worship it, is death. 

To fear it, is wisdom. 

To resist it not, is redemption. 

God dwelleth behind the sun, the devil behind the night What god 
bringeth forth out of the light the devil sucketji into the night. But 
Abraxas is the world, its becoming and its passing. Upon every gift 
that cometh from the god-sun the devil layeth his curse. 

Everything that ye entreat from the god-sun begetteth a deed of the 
devil. 

Everything that ye create with the god-sun giveth effective power to 
the devil. 

That is terrible Abraxas. 

It is the mightiest creature, and in it the creature is afraid of itself. It 
is the manifest opposition of creatura to the pleroma and its 
nothingness. 



It is the son's horror of the mother. 
It is the mother's love for the son. 

It is the delight of the earth and 

the cruelty of the heavens. 

Before its countenance man becometh like stone. 

Before it there is no question and no reply. 

It is the life of creatura. 

It is the operation of distinctiveness. 

It is the love of man. 

It is the speech of man. 

It is the appearance and the shadow of man. 

It is illusory reality. 

Now the dead howled and raged, for they were unperfected. 

Sermo IV 

The dead filled the place murmuring and said: 

Tell us of gods and devils, accursed onel 

The god-sun is the highest good; the devil is the opposite. Thus 
have ye two gods. But there are many high and good things and 
many great evils. Among these are two god-devils; the one is the 
BURNING ONE, the other the GROWING ONE. 

The burning one is EROS, who hath the form of flame. Flame giveth 
light because it consumeth. 

The growing one is the TREE OF LIFE. It buddeth, as in growing it 
heapeth up living stuff. 

Eros flameth up and dieth. But the tree of life groweth with slow and 
constant increase through unmeasured time. 



Good and evil are united in the flame. 

Good and evil are united in the increase of the tree. In their divinity 
stand life and love opposed. 

Innumerable as the host of the stars is the number of gods and 
devils. 

Each star is a god, and each space that a star filleth is a devil. But 
the empty-fullness of the whole is the pleroma. 

The operation of the whole is Abraxas, to whom only the ineffec- 
tive standeth opposed. 

Four is the number of the principal gods, as four is the number of 
the world's measurements. 

One is the beginning, the god-sun. 

Two is Eros; for he bindeth twain together and outspreadeth himself 
in brightness. 

Three is the Tree of Life, for it filleth space with bodily forms. 

Four is the devil, for he openeth all that is closed. All that is formed 
of bodily nature doth he dissolve; he is the destroyer in whom 
everything is brought to nothing. 

For me, to whom knowledge hath been given of the multiplicity and 
diversity of the gods, it is well. But woe unto you, who replace these 
incompatible many by a single god. For in so doing ye beget the 
torment which is bred from not understanding, and ye mutilate the 
creature whose nature and aim is distinctiveness. How can ye be 
true to your own nature when ye try to change the many into one? 
What ye do unto the gods is done likewise unto you. Ye all become 



equal and thus is your nature maimed. 

Equality shall prevail not for god, but only for the sake of man. For 
the gods are many, whilst men are few. The gods are mighty and 
can endure their manifoldness. For like the stars they abide in 
solitude, parted one from the other by immense distances. But men 
are weak and cannot endure their manifold nature. Therefore they 
dwell together and need communion, that they may bear their sepa- 
rateness. For redemption's sake I teach you the rejected truth, for 
the sake of which I was rejected. 

The multiplicity of the gods corresponded! to the multiplicity of man. 

Numberless gods await the human state. Numberless gods have 
been men. Man shareth in the nature of the gods. He cometh from 
the gods and goeth unto god. 

Thus, just as it serveth not to reflect upon the pleroma, it availeth not 
to worship the multiplicity of the gods. Least of all availeth it to 
worship the first god, the effective abundance and the summum 
bonum. By our prayer we can add to it nothing, and from it nothing 
take; because the effective void swalloweth all. 

The bright gods form the celestial world. It is manifold and infi- nitely 
spreading and increasing. The god-sun is the supreme lord of that 
world. 

The dark gods form the earth-world. They are simple and infinitely 
diminishing and declining. The devil is the earth-world's lowest lord, 
the moon-spirit, satellite of the earth, smaller, colder, and more 
dead than the earth. 

There is no difference between the might of the celestial gods and 
those of the earth. The celestial gods magnify, the earth-gods 



dimin- ish. Measureless is the movement of both. 

Sermo V 

The dead mocked and cried: Teach us, fool, of the church and holy 
communion. 

The world of the gods is made manifest in spirituality and in 
sexuality. The celestial ones appear in spirituality, the earthly in 
sexuality. 

Spirituality conceiveth and embraceth. It is womanlike and therefore 
we call it MATER COELESTIS, the celestial mother. Sexuality 
engendereth and createth. It is manlike, and therefore we call it 
PHAIJLOS, the earthly father. 

The sexuality of man is more of the earth, the sexuality of woman is 
more of the, spirit. 

The spirituality of man is more of heaven, it goeth to tie greater. 

The spirituality of woman is more of tie earth, it goeth to the smaller. 

Lying and devilish is the spirituality of the man which goeth to the 
smaller. 

Lying and devilish is the spirituality of the woman which goeth to the 
greater. 

Each must go to its own place. 

Man and woman become devils one to the other when they divide 
not their spiritual ways, for the nature of creatura is distinctiveness. 

The sexuality of man hath an earthward course, the sexuality of 



woman a spiritual. Man and woman become devils one to the other 
if they distinguish not their sexuality. 

Man shall know of the smaller, woman the greater. 

Man shall distinguish himself both from spirituality and from 
sexuality. He shall call spirituality Mother, and set her between 
heaven and earth. He shall call sexuality Phallos, and set him be- 
tween himself and earth. For the Mother and the Phallos are super- 
human daemons which reveal the world of the gods. They are for us 
more effective than the gods, because they are closely akin to our 
own nature. Should ye not distinguish yourselves from sexuality and 
from spirituality, and not regard them as of a nature both above you 
and beyond, then are ye delivered over to them as qualities of the 
pleroma. Spirituality and sexuality are not your qualities, not things 
which ye possess and contain. But they possess and contain you; 
for they are powerful daemons, manifestations of the gods, and are, 
therefore, things which reach beyond you, existing in themselves. 
No man hath a spirituality unto himself, or a sexuality unto himself. 
But he standeth under the law of spirituality and of sexuality. 

No man, therefore, escapeth these daemons. Ye shall look upon 
them as daemons, and as a common task and danger, a common 
burden which life hath laid upon you. Thus is life for you also a 
common task and danger, as are the gods, and first of all terrible 
Abraxas. 

Man is weak, therefore is communion indispensable. If your com- 
munion be not under the sign of the Mother, then is it under the sign 
of the Phallos. No communion is suffering and sickness. 
Communion in everything is dismemberment and dissolution. 

Distinctiveness leadeth to singleness. Singleness is opposed to 
com- munion. But because of man's weakness over against the 



gods and daemons and their invincible law is communion needful. 
Therefore shall there be as much communion as is needful, not for 
man's sake, but because of the gods. The gods force you to 
communion. As much as they force you, so much is communion 
needed, more is evil. 

In communion let every man submit to others, that communion be 
maintained; for ye need it. 

In singleness the one man shall be superior to the others, that every 
man may come to himself and avoid slavery. 

In communion there shall be continence. 

In singleness there shall be prodigality. 

Communion is depth. 

Singleness is height. 

Right measure in communion purifieth and preserveth. 

Right measure in singleness purifieth and increaseth. 

Communion giveth us warmth, singleness giveth us light. 

Sermo VI 

The daemon of sexuality approacheth our soul as a serpent. It is 
half human and appeareth as thought-desire. 

The daemon of spirituality descendeth into our soul as the white 
bird. It is half human and appeareth as desire-thought. 

The serpent is an earthy soul, half daemonic, a spirit, and akin to 



the spirits of the dead. Thus too, like these, she swarmeth around in 
the things of earth, making us either to fear them or pricking us with 
intemperate desires. The serpent hath a nature like unto woman. 
She seeketh ever the company of the dead who are held by the 
spell of the earth, they who found not the way beyond that leadeth to 
singleness. The serpent is a whore. She wantoneth with the devil 
and with evil spirits; a mischievous tyrant and tormentor, ever 
seducing to evilest company. The white bird is a half-celestial soul 
of man. He bideth with the Mother, from time to time descending- 
The bird hatha nature like unto man, and is effective thought. He is 
chaste and solitary, a messenger of the Mother. He flieth high 
above earth. Hecommandeth singleness. He bringeth knowledge 
from the distant ones who went before and are perfected. He 
beareth our word above to the Mother. She intercedeth, she 
warneth, but against the gods she hath no power. She is a vessel of 
the sun. The serpent goeth below and with her cunning she lameth 
the phallic daemon, or else goadeth him on. She yieldeth up the too 
crafty thoughts of the earthy one, those thoughts which creep 
through every hole and cleave to all things with desirousness. The 
serpent, doubtless, willeth it not, yet she must be of use to us. She 
fleeth our grasp, thus showing us the way, which with our human 
wits we could not find. 

With disdainful glance the dead spake: Cease this talk of gods and 
daemons and souls. At bottom this hath long been known to us. 

Sermo VII 

Yet when night was come the dead again approached with lamen- 
table mien and said: There is yet one matter we forgot to mention. 
Teach us about man. 

Man is a gateway, through which from the outer world of gods, 
daemons, and souls ye pass into the inner world; out of the greater 



into the smaller world. Small and transitory is man. Already is he 
behind you, and once again ye find yourselves in endless space, in 
the smaller or innermost infinity. At immeasurable distance standeth 
one single Star in the zenith. 

This is the one god of this one man. This is his world, his pleroma, 
his divinity. 

In this world is man Abraxas, the creator and the destroyer of his 
own world. 

This Star is the god and the goal of man. 

This is his one guiding god. In him goeth man to his rest. Toward 
him goeth the long journey of the soul after death. In him shineth 
forth as light all that man bringeth back from the greater world. To 
this one god man shall pray. 

Prayer increaseth the light of the Star. It casteth a bridge over 
death. It prepareth life for the smaller world and assuageth the 
hopeless desires of the greater. 

When the greater world waxeth cold, burneth the Star. 

Between man and his one god there standeth nothing, so long as 
man can turn away his eyes from the flaming spectacle of Abraxas. 

Man here, god there. 

Weakness and nothingness here, there eternally creative power. 

Here nothing but darkness and chilling moisture. 

There wholly sun. 



Whereupon the dead were silent and ascended like the smoke 
above 

the herdsman's fire, who through the night kept watch over his flock. 

ANAGRAMMA: 

NAHTRIHECCUNDE 

GAHINNEVERAHTUNIN 

ZEHGESSURKLACH 

ZUNNUS. 

(Translated by H. G. Baynes) 



Glossary 



Amplification. Elaboration and clarification of a dream-image by 
means of directed association (q.v.) and of parallels from the 
human sciences (symbology, mythology, mysticism, folklore, history 
of reli- gion, ethnology, etc.). 

Anima and Animus. Personification of the feminine nature of a 
man's unconscious and the masculine nature of a woman's. This 
psychologi- cal bisexuality is a reflection of the biological fact that it 
is the larger number of male (or female) genes which is the decisive 
factor in the determination of sex. The smaller number of 
contrasexual genes seems to produce a corresponding 
contrasexual character, which usually re- mains unconscious. 
Anima and animus manifest themselves most typically in 
personified form as figures in dreams and fantasies ("dream girl," 
"dream lover"), or in the irrationalities of a man's feeling and a 
woman's thinking. As regulators of behavior they are two of the 
most influential archetypes ( q.v. ) . 

C. G. JUNG: "Every man carries within him the eternal image of 
woman, not the image of this or that particular woman, but a defini- 
tive feminine image. This image is fundamentally unconscious, an 
hereditary factor of primordial origin engraved in the living organic 
system of the man, an imprint or 'archetype' [q.v] of all the ancestral 
experiences of the female, a deposit, as it were, of all the 
impressions ever made by woman... Since this image is 
unconscious, it is al- ways unconsciously projected upon the person 
of the beloved, and is one of the chief reasons for passionate 
attraction or aversion." 

(The Development of Personality, GW 17, p. 198) 



"In its primary 'unconscious' form the animus is a compound of 
spontaneous, unpremeditated opinions which exercise a powerful 
in-fluence on the woman's emotional life, while the anima is 
similarly compounded of feelings which thereafter influence or 
distort the man's understanding ('she has turned his head'). 
Consequently the animus likes to project itself upon 'intellectuals' 
and aH kinds of*heroes,* including tenors, artists, sporting 
celebrities, etc. The anima has a predilection for everything that is 
unconscious, dark, equivocal, and unrelated in woman, and also for 
her vanity, frigidity, helpless- ness, and so forth." 

(The Practice of Psychotherapy, CW 16, par. 521) 

"... no man can converse with an animus for five minutes without 
becoming the victim of his own anima. Anyone who still had enough 
sense of humour to listen objectively to the ensuing dialogue would 
be staggered by the vast number of commonplaces, misapplied 
truisms, cliches from newspapers and novels, shop-soiled 
platitudes of every description interspersed with vulgar abuse and 
brain-splitting lack of logic. It is a dialogue which, irrespective of its 
participants, is repeated millions and millions of times in all 
languages of the world and always remains essentially the same." 
(Aion, CW9, u, p. 15) 

Tie natural function of the animus ( as well as of the*anima ) is to 
remain in [their] place between individual consciousness and the 
collective unconscious [q.v.j; exactly as the persona [q.v.j is a sort of 
stratum between the ego-consciousness and die objects of the 
external world. The animus and the anima should function as a 
bridge, or a door, leading to the images of the collective 
unconscious, as the persona should be a sort of bridge into the 
world." 

(Unpublished Seminar Notes. "Visions" I, p. 116) 



Archetype, C. G. JUNG: "The concept of the archetype ... is derived 
from the repeated observation that, for instance, the myths and 
fairy-tales of world literature contain definite motifs which crop up 
every- where. We meet these same motifs in the fantasies, dreams, 
deliria.and delusions of individuals living today. These typical 
images and associations are what I call archetypal ideas. The more 
vivid they are, the more they will be coloured by particularly strong 
feeling- tones... They impress, influence, and fascinate us. They 
have their origin in the archetype, which in itself is an 
irrepresentable, uncon- scious, pre-existent form that seems to be 
part of the inherited struc-ture of the psyche and can therefore 
manifest itself spontaneously anywhere, at any time. Because of its 
instinctual nature, the arche-type underlies the feeling-toned 
complexes [q.v.] and shiares their autonomy." (Civilization in 
Transition, CW 10, par. 847) 

"Again and again I encounter the mistaken notion that an archetype 
is determined in regard to its content, in other words that it is a kind 
of unconscious idea (if such an expression be admissible). It is 
neces-sary to point out once more that archetypes are not 
determined as regards their content, but only as regards their form 
and then only to a very limited degree. A primordial image [9.1?.] is 
determined as to its content only when it has "become conscious 
and is therefore filled out with the material of conscious experience. 
Its form, however, ... might perhaps be compared to the axial 
system of a crystal, which, as it were, preforms the crystalline 
structure in the mother liquid, although it has no material existence 
of its own. This first ap- pears according to the specific way in 
which the ions and molecules aggregate. The archetype in itself is 
empty and purely formal, nothing but a facultas praeformandi, a 
possibility of representation which is given a priori. The 
representations themselves are not inherited, only file forms, and in 
that respect they correspond in every way to the instincts, which are 



also determined in form only. The existence of the instincts can no 
more be proved than the existence of the arche- types, so long as 
they do not manifest themselves concretely." ( The Archetypes and 
the Collective Unconscious, CW 9, i, pp. 79 f.)"... it seems to me 
probable that the real nature of the archetype is not capable of 
being made conscious, that it is transcendent, on which account I 
call it psychoid [qr.t?.].* 

( The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, CW 8, p. 213) 

Association. The linking of ideas, perceptions, etc. according to 
simi-larity, coexistence, opposition, and causal dependence. Free 
associa-tion in Freudian dream interpretation: spontaneous ideas 
occurring to the dreamer, which need not necessarily refer to the 
dream situa-tion. Directed or controlled association in Jungian 
dream interpreta-tion: spontaneous ideas which proceed from a 
given dream situation and constantly relate to it. 

Association test Methods for discovering complexes (9.1?.) by 
meas- uring the reaction time and interpreting the answers to given 
stimulus words. Complex-indicators: prolonged reaction time, 
faults, or the idiosyncratic quality of the answers when the stimulus 
words touch on complexes which the subject wishes to hide or of 
which he is not conscious. 

Complex, C. G. JUNG: "Complexes are psychic fragments which 
have split off owing to traumatic influences or certain incompatible 
tenden-cies. As the association experiments prove, complexes 
interfere with the intentions of the will and disturb the conscious 
performance; they produce disturbances of memory and blockages 
in the flow of associa- tions [qr.tx]; they appear and disappear 
according to their own laws; they can temporarily obsess 
consciousness, or influence speech and action in an unconscious 
way. In a word, complexes behave like inde- pendent beings, a fact 



especially evident in abnormal states of mind. In the voices heard 
by the insane they even take on a personal ego- character like that 
of the spirits who manifest themselves through automatic writing 
and similar techniques." 

( The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, CW 8, p. 121 ) 

Consciousness, C. G. JUNG: "When one reflects upon what 
conscious- ness really is, one is profoundly impressed by the 
extreme wonder of the fact that an event which takes place outside 
in the cosmos simul-taneously produces an internal image, that it 
takes place, so to speak, inside as well, which is to say: becomes 
conscious." 

(Basel Seminar, privately printed, 1934, p. i) "For indeed our 
consciousness does not create itself it wells up from unknown 
depths. In childhood it awakens gradually, and all through life it 
wakes each morning out of the depths of sleep from an 
unconscious condition. It is like a child that is born daily out of the 
primordial womb of the unconscious." 

(Psychology and Religion: West and East, CW 1 1 , pp. 569 f . ) 

Dream, C. G JUNG: "The dream is a little hidden door in the 
innermost and most secret recesses of the psyche, opening into 
that cosmic night which was psyche long before there was any ego- 
consciousness, and which wiH remain psyche no matter how far our 
ego-consciousness may extend... All consciousness separates; but 
in dreams we put on the likeness of that more universal, truer, more 
eternal man dwell- ing in the darkness of primordial night. There he 
is still the whole, and the whole is in him, indistinguishable from 
nature and bare of all egohood. Out of these aU-uniting depths 
arises the dream, be it never so childish, grotesque, and immoral." 



(Civilteation in Transition, CW 10, pars. 304 f.) 

Extraversion. Attitude-type characterized by concentration of 
interest on the external object. See Introversion. 

God-image. A term derived from the Church Fathers, according to 
whom the imago Dei is imprinted on the human soul. When such an 
image is spontaneously produced in dreams, fantasies, visions, 
etc. it is, from the psychological point of view, a symbol of the self ( 
q.v. ), of psychic wholeness. 

C. G. JUNG: "It is only through the psyche that we can establish that 
God acts upon us, but we are unable to distinguish whether these 
actions emanate from God or from the unconscious. We cannot tell 
whether God and the unconscious are two different entities. Both 
are border-line concepts for transcendental contents. But 
empirically it can be established, with a sufficient degree of 
probability, that there is in the unconscious an archetype of 
wholeness which manifests it- self spontaneously in dreams, etc., 
and a tendency, independent of the conscious will, to relate other 
archetypes to fids centre. Conse- quently it does not seem 
improbable that the archetype produces a symbolism which has 
always characterized and expressed the Deity... The God-image 
does not coincide with the unconscious as such, but with a special 
content of it, namely the archetype of the self. It is this archetype 
from which we can no longer distinguish the God- image 
empirically." 

( Psychology and Religion; West and East, CW 1 1 , pp. 468 ) 

"One can, then, explain the God-image ... as a reflection of the self, 
or, conversely, explain the self as an imago Dei in man." 

Hierosgamos. Sacred or spiritual marriage, union of archetypal 



figures in the rebirth mysteries of antiquity and also in alchemy. 
Typical examples are the representation of Christ and the Church 
as bride- groom and bride (sponsus et sponsa) and the alchemical 
conjunction of sun and moon. 

Individuation. C. G. JUNG: "I use the term 'individuation* to denote 
the process by which a person becomes a psychological 'in- 
dividual/ that is, a separate, indivisible unity or 'whole.*" 

( The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, CW 9, i, p. 275) 

Individuation means becoming a single, homogeneous being, and, 
in so far as 'individuality 1 embraces our innermost, last, and incom- 
parable uniqueness, it also implies becoming one's own self. We 
could therefore translate individuation as 'coming to selfhood' or 
'self-reali- zation/ " ( Two Essays on Analytical Psychology, CW 7, 
par. 266) 

"But again and again I note that the individuation process is con- 
fused with the coming of the ego into consciousness and that the 
ego is in consequence identified with the self, which naturally 
produces a hopeless conceptual muddle. Individuation is then 
nothing but ego- centredness and autoeroticism. But the self 
comprises infinitely more than a mere ego ... It is as much one's 
self, and all other selves, as the ego. Individuation does not shut 
one out from the world, but gathers the world to oneself." 

{ The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, CW 8, p. 226 ) 

Inflation. Expansion of the personality beyond its proper limits by 
identification with the persona or with an archetype, or in 
pathological cases with a historical or religious figure. It produces 
an exaggerated sense of one's self-importance and is usually 
compen- sated by feelings of inferiority. 



Introversion. Attitude-type characterized by orientation in Me 
through subjective psychic contents. See Extraversion. 

Mana. Melanesian word for extraordinarily effective power emanat- 
ing from a human being, object, action, or event, or from 
supernatural beings and spirits. Also health, prestige, power to 
work magic and to heal. A primitive concept of psychic energy. 

Mandala (Sanskrit). Magic circle. In Jung, symbol of the center, the 
goal, or the self (q.t?.) as psychic totality; self -representation of a 
psychic process of centering; production of a new center of person- 
ality. This is symbolically represented by the circle, the square, or 
the quaternity (q-v), by symmetrical arrangements of the number 
four and its multiples. In Lamism and Tantric Yoga the mandala is 
an instrument of contemplation (yantra), seat and birthplace of the 
gods. Disturbed mandala: Any form that deviates from the circle > 
square, or equal-armed cross, or whose basic number is not four or 
its multiples. 

C. G. JUNG: "Mandala means a circle, more especially a magic 
circle, and this form of symbol is not only to be found all through the 
East, but also among us; mandalas are amply represented in the 
Middle Ages. The specifically Christian ones come from the earlier 
Middle Ages. Most of them show Christ in the centre, with the four 
evange- lists, or their symbols, at the cardinal points. This 
conception must be a very ancient one because Horus was 
represented with his four sons in the same way by the Egyptians... 
For the most part, the man- dala form is that of a flower, cross, or 
wheel, with a distinct tendency toward four as the basis of the 
structure." 

(Commentary to Secret of the Golden Flower, CW 13, par. 31, 
mod. ) 



"Mandates... usually appear in situations of psychic confusion and 
perplexity. The archetype thereby constellated represents a pat- 
tern of order which, like a psychological View-finder' marked with a 
cross or circle divided into four, is superimposed on the psychic 
chaos so that each content falls into place and the weltering con- 
fusion is held together by the protective circle ... At the same time 
they are yantras, instruments with whose help the order is brought 
into being." ( Civilization in Transition, CW 10, par. 803 ) 

Numinosum. Rudolf Otto's term (in his Idea of the Holy) for the in- 
expressible, mysterious, terrifying, directly experienced and pertain- 
ing only to the divinity. 

Persona. Originally, the mask worn by an actor. 

C. G. JUNG: "The persona ... is the individual's system of adapta- 
tion to, or the manner he assumes in dealing with, the world. Every 
calling or profession, for example, has its own characteristic 
persona. ... Only, the danger is that [people] become identical with 
their personas the professor with his text-book, the tenor with his 
voice. ... One could say, with a little exaggeration, that the persona 
is that which in reality one is not, but which oneself as well as others 
think one is." 

( The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, CW 9, i, pp. 122 
f.)" 

Primordial image. (Jakob Burckhardt) Term originally used by Jung 
for archetype (q.v.). 

Psychoid. "Soul-like" or "quasi-psychic." 

C. G. JUNG: *... the collective unconscious... represents a psyche 
that... cannot be directly perceived or 'represented/ in contrast to 



the perceptible psychic phenomena, and on account of its 
'irrepresentable* nature I have called it 'psychoid.* * 

( The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, CW 8, p. 436) 

Quaternity C. G. JUNG: "The quaternity is an archetype of almost 
uni-versal occurrence. It forms the logical basis for any whole 
judgment. If one wishes to pass such a judgment, it must have this 
fourfold aspect. For instance, if you want to describe the horizon as 
a whole, you name the four quarters of heaven.... There are always 
four elements, four prime qualities, four colours, four castes, four 
ways of spiritual development, etc. So, too, there are four aspects 
of psycho- logical orientation ... In order to orient ourselves, we must 
have a function which ascertains that something is there 
(sensation); a sec-ond function which established what is is 
(thinking); a third function which states whether it suits us or not, 
whether we wish to accept it or not (feeling), and a fourth function 
which indicates where it came from and where it is going (intuition). 
When this has been done, there is nothing more to say... The ideal 
of completeness is the circle or sphere, but its natural minimal 
division is a quaternity." 

(Psychology and Religion: West and East, CW 11, p. 167) A 
quaternity or quaternion often has a 3 + i structure, in that one of the 
terms composing it occupies an exceptional position or has a 
nature unlike that of the others. (For instance three of the symbols of 
the Evangelists are animals and that of the fourth, of St. Luke, is an 
angel.) This is the "Fourth" which, added to the other three, makes 
them "One," symbolizing totality. In analytical psychology often the 
"inferior" function (i.e., that function which is not at the conscious 
disposal of the subject) represents the "Fourth," and its integration 
into consciousness is one of the major tasks of the process of indi- 
viduation 



Self. The central archetype (. ); the archetype of order; the totality of 
the personality. Symbolized by circle, square, quaternity (9.1?.), 
child, mandala ( q.v. ) , etc. 

C. G. JUNG: "... the self is a quantity that is supraordinate to the 
conscious ego. It embraces not only the conscious but also the un- 
conscious psyche, and is therefore, so to speak, a personality 
which we also are.... There is little hope of our ever being able to 
reach even approximate consciousness of the self, since however 
much we may make conscious there will always exist an 
indeterminate and in- determinable amount of unconscious material 
which belongs to the totality of the self." 

(Two Essays on Analytical Psychology, CW 7, par. 274) 

"The self is not only the centre but also the whole circumference 
which embraces both conscious and unconscious; it is the centre of 
this totality, just as the ego is the centre of consciousness." 

(Psychology and Alchemy, CW 12, par. 44) 

"... the self is our lif e's goal, for it is the completest expression of 
that fateful combination we call individuality..." 

( Two Essays on Analytical Psychology, CW 7, par. 404) 

Shadow. The inferior part of the personality; sum of all personal and 
collective psychic elements which, because of their incompatibility 
with the chosen conscious attitude, are denied expression in life 
and therefore coalesce into a relatively autonomous "splinter 
personality" with contrary tendencies in the unconscious. The 
shadow behaves compensatorily to consciousness; hence its 
effects can be positive as well as negative. In dreams, the shadow 
figure is always of the same sex as the dreamer. 



C. G. JUNG: "The shadow personifies everything that the subject 
re-fuses to acknowledge about himself and yet is always thrusting 
itself upon him directly or indirectly for instance, inferior traits of 
charac-ter and other incompatible tendencies." ( The Archetypes 
and the Collective Unconscious, CW 9, i, pp. 284 f . ) 

"... the shadow [is] that hidden, repressed, for the most part in- 
ferior and guilt-laden personality whose ultimate ramifications reach 
back into the realm of our animal ancestors and so comprise the 
whole historical aspect of the unconscious. ... If it has been be- 
lieved hitherto that the human shadow was the source of all evil, it 
can now be ascertained on closer investigation that the 
unconscious man, that is, his shadow, does not consist only of 
morally reprehensi- ble tendencies, but also displays a number of 
good qualities, such as normal instincts, appropriate reactions, 
realistic insights, creative impulses, etc." ( Aton, CW 9, u, p. 266 ) 

Soul. C. G. JUNG: If the human [soul] is anything, it must be of un- 
imaginable complexity and diversity, so that it cannot possibly be 
approached through a mere psychology of instinct. I can only gaze 
with wonder and awe at the depths and heights of our psychic 
nature. Its non-spatial universe conceals an untold abundance of 
images which have accumulated over millions of years of living 
development and become fixed in the organism. My consciousness 
is like an eye that penetrates to the most distant spaces, yet it is the 
psychic non-ego that fills them with nonspatial images. And these 
images are not pale shadows, but tremendously powerful psychic 
factors.... Beside this picture I would like to place the spectacle of 
the starry heavens at night, for the only equivalent of the universe 
within is the universe without; and just as I reach this .world through 
the medium of the body, so I reach that world through the medium of 
the psyche." 

( Freud and Psychoanalysis, CW 4, pp. 331 f . ) 



*lt would be blasphemy to assert that God can manifest Himself 

everywhere save only in the human soul. Indeed the very intimacy of 

the relationship between Cod and the soul automatically precludes 

any devaluation of the latter. It would be going perhaps too far to 
speak of an affinity; but at all events the soul must contain in itself 
the faculty of relation to God, i.e. a correspondence, otherwise a 
con- nection could never come about This correspondence is, in 
psycho- logical terms, the archetype of the God-image [q.v.]" 

(Psychology and Alchemy, CW 12, par. 11) 

Synchronicity. A term coined by Jung to designate the meaningful 
coincidence or equivalence (a) of a psychic and a physical state or 
event which have no causal relationship to one another. Such syn- 
chronistic phenomena occur, for instance, when an inwardly per- 
ceived event (dream, vision, premonition, etc.) is seen to have a 
correspondence in external reality: the inner image of premonition 
has "come true"; (fc) of similar or identical thoughts, dreams, etc. 
oc- curring at the same time in different places. Neither the one nor 
the other coincidence can be explained by causality, but seems to 
be con- nected primarily with activated archetypal processes in the 
uncon- scious. 

C. G. JUNG: "My preoccupation with the psychology of unconscious 
processes long ago compelled me to look about for another 
principle of explanation, because the causality principle seemed to 
me in- adequate to explain certain remarkable phenomena of the 
psychology of the unconscious. Thus I found that there are psychic 
parallelisms which cannot be related to each other causally, but 
which must be connected through another principle, namely the 



contingency of events. This connection of events seemed to me 
essentially given by the fact of their relative simultaneity, hence the 
term 'synchronistic/ It seems, indeed, as though time, far from being 
an abstraction, is a concrete continuum which contains qualities or 
basic conditions that manifest themselves simultaneously in 
different places through paral- lelisms that cannot be explained 
causally, as, for example, in cases of the simultaneous occurrence 
of identical thoughts, symbols, or psychic states." ("Richard 
Wilhelm: InMemoriam," CW 15, par. 81, mod.) 

"I chose this term because the simultaneous occurrence of two 
meaningfully but not causally connected events seemed to me an 
essential criterion. I am therefore using the general concept of syn- 
chronicity in the special sense of a coincidence in time of two or 
more causally unrelated events which have the same or a similar 
meaning, in contrast to 'synchronism/ which simply means the 
simultaneous oc- currence of two events." 

( The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, CW 8, p. 441 ) 

"Synchronicity is no more baffling or mysterious than the discon- 
tinuities of physics. It is only the ingrained belief in the sovereign 
power of causality that creates intellectual difficulties and makes it 
appear unthinkable that causeless events exist or could ever occur. 
. . , Meaningful coincidences are thinkable as pure chance. But the 
more they multiply and the greater and more exact the correspond- 
ence is, the more their probability sinks and their unthinkability in- 
creases, until they can no longer be regarded as pure chance but, 
for lack of a causal explanation, have to be thought of as meaningful 
ar- rangements.... Their 'inexplicability* is not due to the fact that the 
cause is unknown, but to the fact that a cause is not even thinkable 
in intellectual terms." ( Ibid., pp. 518 f . ) 

Unconscious, the. C. G. JUNG: "Theoretically, no limits can be set 



t o the field of consciousness, since it is capable of indefinite 
extension. Empirically, however, it always finds its limit when it 
comes up against the unknown. This consists of everything we do 
not know, which, therefore, is not related to the ego as the centre of 
the field of consciousness. The unknown falls into two groups of 
objects: those which are outside and can be experienced by the 
senses, and those which are inside and are experienced 
immediately. The first group comprises the unknown in the outer 
world; the second the unknown in the inner world. We call this latter 
territory the unconscious! 9 

(Aion, CW9, u, p. 3) 

"... everything of which I know, but of which I am not at the moment 
thinking; everything of which I was once conscious but have now 
forgotten; everything perceived by my senses, but not noted by my 
conscious mind; everything which, involuntarily and without pay- ing 
attention to it, I feel, think, remember, want, and do; all the future 
things that are taking shape in me and will sometime come to 
consciousness: all this is the content of the unconscious." 

(The Structure and Dynamics of the Psyche, CW 8, p. 185) 

"Besides these we must include all more or less intentional repres- 
sions of painful thoughts and feelings. I call the sum of all these con- 
tents the "personal unconscious/ But, over and above that, we also 
find in the unconscious qualities that are not individually acquired 
but are inherited, e.g., instincts as impulses to carry out actions 
from necessity, without conscious motivation. In this 'deeper' 
stratum we also find the... archetypes... The instincts and 
archetypes to-gether form the 'collective unconscious/ I call it 
'collective' because, unlike the personal unconscious, it is not made 
up of individual and more or less unique contents but of those which 
are universal and of regular occurrence." (Ibid., pp. 133 f . ) 



The first group comprises contents which are integral components 
of the individual personality and therefore could just as well be con- 
scious; the second group forms, as it were, an omnipresent, 
unchang- ing, and everywhere identical quality or substrate of the 
psyche perser( Aion, CW9, ii, p. 7) 

The deeper layers* of the psyche lose their individual uniqueness 
as they retreat farther and farther into darkness. Xower down/ that is 
to say as they approach the autonomous functional systems, they 
become increasingly collective until they are universalized and ex- 
tinguished in the body's materiality, i.e., in chemical substances. 
The body's carbon is simply carbon. Hence *at bottom' the psyche 
is simply 'world/* 

(The Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious, CW 9, i, p. 173) 

The Collected Works of C. G. Jung 

The publication of the first complete collected edition, in English, of 
the works of C. G. Jung has been undertaken by Roudedge and 
Kegan Paul, Ltd., in England and by Bollingen Foundation in the 
United States. Sir Herbert Read, Dr. Michael Fordham, Dr. Gerhard 
Adler, and William McGuire compose the Editorial Committee; the 
translator is R. F. C. Hull. Since 1967, Princeton University Press 
has been the American publisher. 

In the following list, dates of original publication are given in 
parentheses (of original composition, in brackets). Multiple dates 
indicate revisions. 

Dagger (t ) denotes volumes in preparation. 

1 . PSYCHIATRIC STUDIES 



On the Psychology and Pathology of So-Called Occult Phenomena 
(1902) 

On Hysterical Misreading (1904) 

Cryptomnesia (1905) 

On Manic Mood Disorder (1 903) 

A Case of Hysterical Stupor in a Prisoner in Detention (1902) 

On Simulated Insanity (1903) 

A Medical Opinion on a Case of Simulated Insanity ( 1904) 

A Third and Final Opinion on Two Contradictory Psychiatric Diag- 
noses (1906) 

On the Psychological Diagnosis of Facts ( 1905) 

2. EXPERIMENTAL RESEARCHES 

TRANSLATED BY LEOPOLD STEIN 

IN COLLABORATION WITH DANA RIVIERE 

Studies in Word Association (1904-7, 1910) 

The Associations of Normal Subjects (by Jung and F. Rikhn) 

An Analysis of the Associations of an Epileptic 

The Collected Works of C. G. Jung 

The Reaction-Time Ratio in the Association Experiment 



Experimental Observations on the Faculty of Memory 

Psychoanalysis and Association Experiments 

The Psychological Diagnosis of Evidence 

Association, Dream, and Hysterical Symptom 

The Psychopathological Significance of the Association 
Experiment 

Disturbances in Reproduction in tihe Association Experiment 

The Association Method 

The Family Constellation 

Psychophysical Researches (1907-8) 

On the Psychophysical Relations of the Association Experiment 
Psychophysical Investigations with the Galvanometer and Pneumo- 
graph in Normal and Insane Individuals (by F. Peterson and Jung) 

Further Investigations on the Galvanic Phenomenon and 
Respiration in Normal and Insane Individuals (by C. Ricksher and 
Jung) 

Appendix: Statistical Details of Enlistment (1906); New Aspects of 
Criminal Psychology (1908); The Psychological Methods of 
Investigation Used in the Psychiatric Clinic of the University of 
Zurich (1910); On the Doctrine of Complexes ( [1911] 1913); On the 
Psychological Diagnosis of Evidence (1937) 

3. THE PSYCHO GENESIS OF MENTAL DISEASE 



The Psychology of Dementia Praecox( 1907) 

The Content of the Psychoses (1908/1914) 

On Psychological Understanding (1914) 

A Criticism of Bleuler's Theory of Schizophrenic Negativism (1911) 

On the Importance of the Unconscious inPsychopathology(1914) 

On the Problem of Psychogenesis in Mental Disease (1919) 

Mental Disease and the Psyche ( 1928 ) 

On the Psychogenesis of Schizophrenia ( 1 939) 

Recent Thoughts on Schizophrenia (1957) 

Schizophrenia (1958) 

4. FREUD AND PSYCHOANALYSIS 

Freud's Theory of Hysteria: A Reply to Aschaffenburg (1 906) 

The Freudian Theory of Hysteria (1908) 

The Analysis of Dreams ( 1909) 

A Contribution to the Psychology of Rumour (1910-11) 

On die Significance of Number Dreams (1910-11) 

Morton Prince, "Mechanism and Interpretation of Dreams": A Criti- 
cal Review (1911) 

On the Criticism of Psychoanalysis (1910) 



Concerning Psychoanalysis ( 19151) 

The Theory of Psychoanalysis (1913) 

General Aspects of Psychoanalysis (1913) 

Psychoanalysis and Neurosis (1916) 

Some Crucial Points in Psychoanalysis: The Jung-Loy Correspond- 
ence (1914) 

Prefaces to "Collected Papers on Analytical Psychology" (1916, 
1917) 

The Significance of the Father in the Destiny of the Individual 
(1909/1949) 

Introduction to Kranefeldt's "Secret Ways of the Mind" (1 930) 

Freud and Jung: Contrasts (1929) 

5. SYMBOLS OF TRANSFORMATION (1912/1952) 

Original German version, Wandlungen und Symbole der Libido, 
1912 ( = Psychology of the Unconscious); present extensively 
revised version, 1952. 

Appendix: The Miller Fantasies 

6. PSYCHOLOGICAL TYPES (I92I) 

Appendix: Four Papers on Psychological Typology (1913, 1925, 
1931,1936) 

7. TWO ESSAYS ON ANALYTICAL PSYCHOLOGY 



On the Psychology of the Unconscious ( 191 7/1 926/1 943) The 
Relations between the Ego and the Unconscious ( 1928) 

New Paths in Psychology ( 1912) 

The Structure of the Unconscious (1916) 

8. THE STRUCTURE AND DYNAMICS OF THE PSYCHE 

On Psychic Energy (1928) 

The Transcendent Function ( [1916/1957) 

The Collected Works of C. G. Jung 

A Review of the Complex Theory ( 1 934) 

The Significance of Constitution and Heredity in Psychology ( 1929) 

Psychological Factors Determining Human Behaviour (1937) 

Instinct and the Unconscious (1919) 

The Structure of the Psyche ( 1927/1931 ) 

On the Nature of the Psyche ( 1947/1954) 

General Aspects of Dream Psychology (1916/1 948) 

On the Nature of Dreams ( 1 945/1 948) 

The Psychological Foundations of Belief in Spirits ( 1920/1948) 

Spirit and Life (1926) 



Basic Postulates of Analytical Psychology (193*) 

Analytical Psychology and Weltanschauung (1928/1931) 

The Real and the Surreal (1933) 

The Stages of Life ( 1 930-1 931 ) 

The Soul and Death ( 1934) 

Synchronicity: An Acausal Connecting Principle (1952)